**Diary Entry**
I never imagined the day would come when there’d be no place for me in my own home—a cosy flat in the quiet town of Winchester. My daughter, Gemma, whom I’d raised with so much love, hurled words at me that twisted my heart into a knot: “Dad, don’t take this the wrong way, but think of your grandkids. Give us your flat.” Her voice was icy as a December gale, and her eyes held a steeliness that made her a stranger to me.
“Move in with Oliver’s mother—she’s got a three-bedroom place,” I replied, fighting to keep my voice steady. Gemma just scoffed. “You know we don’t get along!” Then she barged past me into the flat like she owned it already. I stood there, stunned, unable to believe the girl I’d doted on could be so cold. Deep down, I wondered if I’d failed her somehow, but I refused to dwell on it.
Then came the final blow. My eight-year-old granddaughter, Poppy, gazed up at me with those big eyes and said, “Grandad, don’t you love us? Why are you being so selfish?” Her words cut like a knife. I couldn’t bear it. “Fine, Gemma,” I choked out. “Take the flat. But you’ll have to take my dog, Winston.” She nodded briskly, and trusting her promises, I agreed.
Two days later, I was bundled off to a care home. A cramped, damp room with peeling wallpaper became my new “home.” Sitting on the creaky bed, staring at nothing, I tried to make sense of how my life had unraveled. “Hello, I’m Edith,” said an elderly woman beside me, her smile kind but weary. “It’s hard at first, but you’ll get used to it.” I asked, “Did your children send you here too?” She shook her head. “No children. My nephew. Cleared out my flat and dumped me here.” Her words echoed—I wasn’t alone in my grief.
Week after week, I waited for Gemma, Oliver, the kids. Not a visit, not a call. Winston, my faithful friend, was lost somewhere in the world I’d left behind. Then one day, my old neighbour, Geoffrey, walked in. “There you are, Henry!” he exclaimed. “I knew you hadn’t gone off to the countryside. You’d never abandon Winston!” My breath caught. “What about Winston?” I whispered.
“He’s with me, safe and sound,” Geoffrey reassured me, that familiar spark in his eye. He was a solicitor, and I knew he meant business. “Tell me everything,” he said. I spilled it all—Gemma’s demands, the flat, the betrayal. He listened, nodded, then said, “Pack your things. You’ll stay with us while I sort the paperwork.”
Geoffrey was my saviour. We reclaimed my flat, evicting Gemma and her family. It hurt—hearing her scream, calling me heartless—but I couldn’t forgive the betrayal. We sold the flat. I gave Gemma her share (I couldn’t leave her with nothing) and used my portion to buy a snug little cottage near Winchester. Quiet, green, with Winston tearing joyfully across the garden.
“Geoffrey, one last favour,” I said over tea in my new home. “Remember Edith, from the care home? Fetch her. She doesn’t belong there.” The next evening, the three of us—Edith, Winston, and I—sat together. Edith smiled as she stroked the dog, and for the first time in ages, life felt right again. Gemma’s called a few times, begging forgiveness, but I’m not ready. Maybe time will mend things, but for now, all I want is peace in this house, with those who’ve proven to be my true family.
This cottage is my sanctuary. Edith shares her stories, Winston dozes by the hearth, and at last, I’m home. Gemma made her choice, and though I bear no grudge, my heart belongs to those who stayed. Life’s taught me this: family isn’t just blood—it’s those who don’t betray you.