When I arrived and spotted my 86-year-old grandad sitting on his doorstep with a suitcase and two bin bags, cradling an injured puppy to his chest, I knew my stepmum had crossed a line. What she didnt realise was that Id been biding my time for two yearsand I was about to turn the tables on her.
Im 25, and two years ago, after my nan passed, I learned a hard lesson about family: sometimes those who claim to love you the most are the first to cut you out, and sometimes the quietest person in the roomlike my grandadis shouldering a pain no one else sees.
After Nans funeral, my dad and stepmum, Carol, moved into Grandads house. Dad insisted it was to “help him get back on his feet.”
“Its only temporary,” Dad assured me.
But within weeks, things shifted. Nans photographs vanished one by one. Her porcelain was gone from the dining room. When I asked, Carol just shrugged.
“We packed it away,” she said. “It was just gathering dust.”
The way she dismissed Nans memory made my blood boil.
Then she swapped the curtainsNans hand-stitched floral onesfor plain cream blinds.
“Much better,” Carol declared. “More modern.”
Grandad said nothing, just sat in his armchair, staring blankly. Thats the kind of man he isthe sort who apologises if you accidentally brush past him. Even as his home lost its soul, he bore it all in silence, his grief like a weight he couldnt shake.
Then, one autumn evening, everything changed.
After visiting Nans grave, as he always did on Sundays, he heard a whimper near Bakers Lane. In the gutter, he found a scrawny pup with tangled fur and a twisted paw, trembling and alone.
“Her leg was broken,” he told me later. “Couldnt have been more than two months old. Someone mustve dumped her like rubbish.”
He raced the pup to the emergency vet. Two hundred quid later, she had a splint and a name: Biscuit.
For the first time since Nan died, I heard life in his voice again. He sent me daily photosBiscuit napping in his lap, dragging her splint across the floor, licking his stubble.
“Shes one of us now, love,” he texted.
I was over the moon. Finally, he wasnt so alone.
So last weekend, I surprised himdrove three hours with toys for Biscuit and ingredients for a treacle tart. But when I pulled up, my heart sank.
There he wason the step, bags packed, Biscuit in his arms.
“Grandad?” I hurried over.
He forced a smile, but his eyes were glassy. “Alright, love?”
“Whats happened? Why are you out here?”
His voice cracked. “Carol said Biscuit has to go. Called her a broken mongrel, said shed wreck the house. Told me if I wouldnt give her up, I should leave too.”
“But this is YOUR house!”
“Your dads abroad. Carol says its her decision till hes back. She packed my things herself. Said Id be better off in some care home that takes old blokes and their pets.”
I went cold. She had no right.
That evening, I made my move.
First, I booked a suite at The Savoypet-friendly, top-notch. If Grandad was being forced out, hed do it in comfort.
“Come on, Grandad,” I said, loading his bags. “You and Biscuit are staying somewhere proper tonight.”
“Emily, I cant”
“My treat,” I cut in. “Roast beef for you, chicken for Biscuit.”
At the hotel, Biscuit sprawled across the bed like she owned the place. Grandad looked lost, uneasy. I crouched beside his chair.
“I promise,” I said. “Tomorrow, Ill sort this.”
And I did.
I spent the night trawling through land registry records. Title deeds, council tax filesit was all there. The house was still in Grandads name. Dad and Carol had no legal claim.
The next morning, I rang my mate Sophie, who works at The Guardian.
“I need you to film something,” I told her.
“Exposing a right monster?”
“The worst kind. Someone who chucks out an old man.”
An hour later, Sophies hidden camera was rolling as we walked into the house. Carol was in the kitchen, sipping sherry from Nans cut crystal.
“Alright, Carol?” I said casually. “Why was Grandad sitting outside with his bags?”
She didnt blink. “Because he picked that mangy dog over family. I told himeither the mutt goes, or he goes with it.”
“But this is his house.”
She smirked. “Not for long. Hes 86. When he pops his clogs, this placell be worth a mint. I wont let some lame dog tank the value.”
Every word was on tape.
That evening, I sprung the trap.
I invited Carol to dinner at the hotel, claiming Dad wanted us to “patch things up.” She turned up in her pearls, smirking like shed won.
“So,” she said, “has he come to his senses about the dog yet?”
I tapped my phone and hit play. Her voice rang out: “Either the mutt goes, or he goes with it. When he pops his clogs, this placell be worth a mint.”
Her face went chalk-white.
“Heres how it is, Carol,” I said. “The house is Grandads. Youve got no say. And now Ive got proof youre exploiting an old man.”
“You wouldnt”
“Oh, I would. I could send this to Dad, the neighbours, or straight to the papers.”
Her hands shook. “What do you want?”
“I want you out. Tonight. Pack up and go. And if you so much as glance at Grandad or Biscuit wrong, this video goes public.”
She left in a fury.
When Dad returned two weeks later, I showed him the footage. His face went from pale to thunderous.
“She said that? About my dad? About Mums house?”
For once, he didnt defend her. Within a month, Carol was gonefor good.
And Grandad? He went home, where he belonged, with Biscuit at his heels.
Her paw healed after surgery, though she still has a little skip. Grandad calls her his “tin soldier.”
Last Sunday, I found them on the stepBiscuit yapping at the postie, Grandad chuckling.
“She reckons she runs the street,” he said. Then he looked at me, eyes shining. “Love, I thought Id lost everything when your
