My father remembered me… when he heard about my grandmother’s inheritance
My life has hardly been a bed of roses, but the true blow came not from growing up without my parents, but from the sudden reappearance of the man I once called father—after nearly fifteen years of silence. And he didn’t come with flowers or apologies. He came with a demand: “Share the inheritance.”
My parents divorced when I was four. My mother lost herself to drink soon after, the courts stripped her of custody, and my father, lacking the strength to raise me himself, took me to his mother in a quiet village near Norwich. He lived in the city and hardly ever visited—once every six months, if that.
I attended the village school, learned to tend the garden, sew on an old treadle machine, fish, bundle herbs for drying, and make jam. Life with Gran was simple, but true. In year three, my father arrived with a strange woman. I was sent outside to play. When I returned, only Gran remained, sitting in her armchair, her eyes distant.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
“He won’t be coming back, Lottie,” was all she said.
And he never did. He started a new family, forgot his daughter. Gran and I carried on alone. I never grieved—I had her. Wise, quiet, firm, yet kind. She became everything to me: mother, father, friend.
When I finished year nine, Auntie Margaret, the village seamstress, told me, “You’ve got a gift with your hands. Go to college—don’t waste your talent digging potatoes.”
I listened. Moved to the city. Studied, worked odd jobs, kept my head down. My father lived just three stops from my student housing—yet in four years, he never once asked if I was alive. I never sought him out either.
After college, I found work at a tailor’s, married William. We rented a tiny flat but visited Gran in the village every Friday. She adored him. She was overjoyed when she learned I was pregnant. But she never got to meet her grandchild…
When Gran passed, the world felt hollow. Then the solicitor came—the house, the land, her savings, all left to me. I sobbed over that letter. Not for the money, but for the memories.
My father didn’t come to the funeral. Not a call, not a word. He learned of her death—and the will—six months later. And then, for the first time in fifteen years, he knocked on my door.
I barely recognised the greying man before me. He didn’t mince words.
“Gran’s estate should be split. Half is rightfully mine.”
I laughed in his face—bitter, loud.
“You? Half? You gave up on me and your own mother. Now you remember? Smelled the money, did you?”
He snarled, but William stepped forward.
“Leave. Walk away now, or I’ll help you.”
He took me to court. But even the law sided with me. He lost, paid the costs, vanished again.
William and I opened our own workshop. We stitched uniforms—for builders, nurses, garage workers. Orders kept us busy. We built our own life.
I never saw my father again. Nor do I care to. Gran—she was my real family. I endured because she once believed I was meant for more. And I live every day to make her proud. Somewhere beyond the clouds…
