Happiness Built on Another’s Sorrow: How a Grandson Left His Grandfather Homeless
My name is Margaret Stevens, and I live in a quiet neighbourhood on the outskirts of York. Everyone here knows each other, especially the elderly. There was one old man we all knew—Edward Thompson. He’d just turned eighty-two, but despite his thin frame and slightly stooped back, he carried himself with surprising energy. Every morning, he’d start up his old Ford and drive into town—sometimes to collect his pension, other times to the chemist or the market. He even had a companion—Mary Cooper, a lively, well-kept woman twenty years his junior, with kind eyes and a warm smile. They often strolled hand in hand in the evenings, like teenagers on a first date. The neighbours and I would watch them fondly, even envying their quiet happiness a little.
Then one day, Edward’s grandson showed up. He’d come from a village near Leeds—William. At first glance, he seemed modest—twenty-seven, polite, even a bit shy. He explained that jobs were scarce back home, and life was unbearable. He asked his grandfather if he could stay just until he found work. “Once I’m settled,” he promised, “I’ll rent my own place and bring my fiancée over.” Edward didn’t hesitate—family was family, after all.
For a while, things were civil. William went to interviews, trying to find his footing. Edward helped however he could—fed him, bought him clothes, even gave him pocket money. Mary had less attention than before—most of Edward’s resources went to the young man. She sighed but didn’t complain. Family came first.
Two months passed. William’s job hunt grew half-hearted—his grandfather’s pension was surprisingly generous. There was enough for cigarettes, taxis, and nights out with friends. Only his fiancée, that village girl, kept calling every evening: “When are you bringing me to the city?” So William finally took a job as a supermarket security guard and got his first paycheque.
But then came the moment that turned everything cold. With the sweetest expression, he approached Edward and said, “Grandad, I’d like to live here properly. Let’s sort out temporary registration—and to keep everything legal, just sign a couple of papers about the flat. I’ll pay you rent, just like a proper tenant.” Without reading too closely, Edward signed.
A week later, the fiancée arrived—Sophie, young, with manicured nails and a sharp look in her eye. Soon after, the couple announced the flat was now theirs. The papers Edward signed had been a deed of gift. The old man went pale. His hands shook with horror and humiliation. He couldn’t believe his own grandson had pulled such a cruel trick.
The young pair didn’t waste time. They suggested Edward and Mary move to an old cottage in the countryside—“for fresh air, better for your health.” But Mary wasn’t the pushover they expected. She’d worked at a television studio for years and knew journalists, solicitors, and people with influence. She made enough noise that the story hit the news.
When the neighbours learned the truth, they marched to the police as one. Statements were filed, witnesses brought forward, every detail laid bare. Within days, officers arrived at the flat. William knew his scheme had failed. Under public pressure, he gave up the flat, packed his bags, and fled with Sophie back to the countryside—though not to his own village. Even there, he was met with scorn. His family disowned him. Even his own mother said she wanted nothing more to do with him.
Edward kept his home. But happiness didn’t return at once. For a long time, he sat silently, staring out the window. Only Mary stayed by his side, holding his hand and whispering, “You’re not alone, Ed. We’ll get through this.”
Sometimes betrayal doesn’t come from strangers. It shares your surname, calls you “Grandad,” and smiles sweetly—until it takes everything you have.
