“Don’t come back, grandson…”
“Right then, Grandad, I’m off! Been lovely here, just like being a kid again! That sauna was brilliant—felt like a whole new man! Might pop by next weekend, eh?”
“Best not come back, lad…” Granny wiped her hands on her apron and let out a slow, heavy sigh.
“Granny, what’s this about?” Jack was stunned. He’d always been sure he was their pride and joy—their own flesh and blood. He’d lived with them till he was twelve, called them Mum and Dad.
“No point,” Grandad cut in, his thick brows lowering darkly. “I see now why your wife left you. How you turned out like this, I’ll never know…” He waved a hand and turned away, limping toward the shed on his bad leg.
“Graaandad!” The woman rushed onto the porch barefoot, forgetting the biting September wind and the drizzle. Birch leaves fluttered blindly into her face as storm clouds raced overhead.
“Graaandad, Jack called! He’s coming! Oh, what joy!” she cried, clutching her hands to her chest.
The old man straightened up with a groan, wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve.
“What’re you doing out here barefoot? You’ll catch your death!” he scolded. “Get inside. I’ll be in shortly.”
“But I—just wanted to tell you, couldn’t help meself…”
“Inside, I said!”
The old woman sniffled and shuffled back to the cottage, her heart aching. Jack—their little Jack, the light of their lives. They’d raised him from a babe, his first steps, his first word: “Granny.” Then his real mum turned up. Took him. Took him the moment she “got back on her feet.” Twelve years later. Like he was on loan, and the time was up. Grandad had raged back then, chased her off, shamed her—but it was no use. They left. Jack cried, called often at first, then less… then hardly at all.
And since then, the house had been quiet. Their hearts, empty. When he got married, he didn’t even tell them. Found out from others. It stung. And now—he’d called. He was coming. Warm hope flickered in her chest.
For three days, Granny buzzed about like it was Christmas Eve. Scrubbed the floors, baked pies. Barely slept—wondering: What’s he like now? Bet he’s grown into a proper looker…
That evening, a sleek black car rolled into the yard, its windows tinted like night. A shiver ran down her spine. Out stepped Jack—stocky, close-cropped, in a fancy jacket. Grinned. Said his hellos.
“Grandad, Granny! Got anything to eat? I’m starvin’!”
“Course, love. Come in…”
No one expected gifts—times were hard. But a little thought wouldn’t hurt. Just something…
He wolfed down his food, kicked his feet up on the table, lit a fag, and started bragging about how “sorted” his life was. Grandad’s lip twitched. He stood and headed for the woodpile.
Jack didn’t let up. Went on about his wife—some MP’s daughter. How she “didn’t appreciate him,” always running to Daddy. How they made him work, but he “didn’t marry for that.” Got sacked. No place to live. Now he was a driver. Fancy black car, windows black as pitch.
“Need money,” he said. “You’ve got some, Grandad. You’ve had your time. Now it’s mine.”
Grandad split logs in silence. Wanted to blacken his hands proper, but Granny stopped him, leading him away. She sat, listening to this stranger, crossing herself under her breath. Past midnight, he crashed—right at the table, empty glass in hand.
Morning came, and he was fresh as a daisy. Demanded another sauna. Ate his fill. Slouched onto the porch and announced he was off.
“Right then, off you go,” Grandad muttered, bundling into his coat.
Granny looked at him—he’d aged a decade in a day. Hunched, shoulders sagging.
“Jack,” she said, tightening her shawl. “One last thing. The world don’t revolve round you. You’re dust. Treat folk how you’d be treated. And your soul… it’s like them car windows. There, but you can’t see through it.”
She crossed his forehead, then followed Grandad, hand pressed to her heart. In that harsh autumn, it hit her—spring wouldn’t come for them again.
And don’t you come back.
