Happiness Built on Another’s Sorrow: How a Grandson Left His Grandfather Homeless
My name is Evelyn Spencer, and I live in a quiet neighbourhood on the outskirts of Manchester. Everyone here knows one another, especially the elderly. There was an old man among us—Benjamin Whitmore. He’d just turned eighty-two, but he carried himself well, despite being thin and slightly stooped. Every morning, he’d start his old Ford Focus and drive into town—sometimes to collect his pension, other times to the chemist or the market. He even had a companion—Margaret Dawson, twenty years his junior, lively, well-kept, with kind eyes. In the evenings, they’d stroll hand in hand, like teenagers on a first date. My neighbours and I would watch them fondly, and if I’m honest, we envied their quiet happiness just a little.
Then, one day, Benjamin’s grandson arrived. He’d come from a village near Leeds—Oliver. At first glance, he seemed unassuming—twenty-seven, polite, even a bit shy. He said there was no work back home, that it was impossible to make a living, and asked to stay with his grandfather just until he got on his feet. Once he found a job, he promised, he’d rent a flat and bring his sweetheart over. Benjamin didn’t hesitate—of course he took him in. Blood is blood, after all.
At first, things were civil. Oliver went to job interviews, trying to find his place. His grandfather helped however he could—fed him, clothed him, even gave him pocket money. Margaret got less attention—everything was poured into the young man. She’d sigh but never complained. Family is family.
Two months passed. Oliver lost interest in work—his grandfather’s pension was surprisingly generous. There was enough for cigarettes, taxis, nights out with mates. But his sweetheart—a village girl named Charlotte—called nearly every evening: “When are you bringing me to the city?” So Oliver finally took a job as a supermarket security guard and got his first paycheque.
Then came the moment that chilled us to the bone. He sat Benjamin down and, with the kindest smile, said, “Grandad, I want to live with you properly. Let’s register me officially—just sign a few papers for the flat. I’ll pay you rent, keep everything above board.” Benjamin, without reading closely, signed.
A week later, Charlotte moved in. Young, manicured, with a spoiled look about her. Soon, the pair told Benjamin the flat was theirs. Turned out, he’d signed it over. The old man went pale, trembling with shock and shame. He couldn’t believe his own grandson would do something so wicked.
The young couple didn’t waste time. They suggested Benjamin and Margaret move to an old cottage in the countryside—”for the fresh air,” they said. But Margaret wasn’t the woman they took her for. She’d worked at the BBC for years, knew journalists, solicitors, people with influence. She made such a fuss 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. Days later, officers knocked on the door. Oliver knew—his scheme had failed. Under pressure, he gave up the flat, packed his bags, and fled with Charlotte back to the village. Not his own—even there, he was met with scorn. His family shut him out. Even his mother said she wanted nothing more to do with him.
Benjamin stayed in his flat. But the joy didn’t return right away. For a long time, he just stared out the window in silence. Only Margaret held his hand and whispered, “You’re not alone, Ben. We’re in this together.”
Sometimes betrayal doesn’t come from strangers. It shares your name, calls you “Grandad,” and smiles sweetly—until it takes everything you have.
