Father remembered me… when he heard about Grandma’s inheritance
My life has never been easy, but the real blow wasn’t growing up without parents—it was the sudden return of the man I once called Dad, after nearly fifteen years of silence. He didn’t come with flowers or apologies. Just a demand: *”Split the inheritance.”*
My parents divorced when I was four. Mum lost herself in drink too quickly, the courts stripped her of custody, and my father, unwilling to truly be a dad, dumped me at his mother’s place in a sleepy village near York. He lived in the city, visiting barely twice a year—if that.
I went to the village school, learned to dig in the dirt, sew on an old Singer, fish by the river, bundle brooms, and stir jam in bubbling pots. Life with Grandma was simple but real. In Year 3, Dad showed up with a strange woman. I was sent outside to play. When I came back, only Grandma sat in her armchair, eyes hollow.
*”Where’s Dad?”* I asked.
*”He won’t be coming back, love,”* was all she said.
And he didn’t. Started a new family, forgot his daughter. Grandma and I carried on. I never grieved—I *had* her. Wise, quiet, firm but kind. She became everything: mother, father, friend.
When I finished Year 11, Auntie Margaret, the village seamstress, said: *”You’ve got magic in your hands. Go to college—don’t waste it on turnips.”*
I listened. Left for London. Studied, scraped by, survived. Dad lived three Tube stops from my dorm—never once checked if I was alive. I never sought him out either.
After college, I landed a job at a tailor’s, married Stephen. We rented a shoebox flat but drove to the village every Friday. Grandma adored him. Beamed when I told her I was expecting. But she never met her grandson…
When Grandma died, the world emptied. Then the solicitor came: the cottage, the land, the savings—all left to me. I sobbed over that letter. Not for the money—for the memories.
Dad didn’t come to the funeral. Not a call, not a word. He found out six months later—about her death *and* the will. And then—for the first time in fifteen years—he knocked on my door.
I barely recognised the greying stranger. He didn’t mince words: *”Grandma’s estate should be split. Half is legally mine.”*
I laughed in his face. Bitter, loud. *”Yours? Half? You walked away from me—from her. Now you remember? Smell the pounds, did you?”*
He bared his teeth, but Stephen stepped forward: *”Leave. Now—or I’ll help you.”*
He took me to court. Even the law sided with me. He lost, paid the fees, vanished again.
Stephen and I opened our own workshop. Sewing overalls for builders, nurses, garage workers. Orders kept us afloat. We built our life.
I never saw Dad again. Don’t care to. Grandma—*she* was my family. I endured because she once decided I deserved *more*. And I live to make her proud. Somewhere beyond the clouds.
