Every night, my granddaughter would disappear into the stable, believing I was asleep. I would hear the door creak and soft footsteps in the dark. It kept happening again and again. Finally, I decided to follow her and find out the truth. But when I discovered her secret, I wished I never had.
I’ve lived a long life, and I’ve learned that true happiness is simple. It’s about land, nature, and animals. Hard work, fresh air, and the satisfaction of watching something grow with your own hands. Some might think I say this just because I own a farm. Maybe that’s part of it, but I truly believe nothing compares to planting seedlings all day and then sitting on the porch in the evening, sipping homemade herbal tea, knowing that my work will soon bear fruit.
However, my farm is not my only happiness, nor is it my greatest pride. That honor belongs to my granddaughter, Emilia.
She was just three years old when she was left in my care. A tiny thing with big, curious eyes and soft curls that bounced when she ran. Her parents, my own daughter and her husband, had dreams that didn’t include a child. They wanted adventure, travel, and successful careers. A little girl didn’t fit into their plans. So they left her with me and never looked back.
But I did. I was there for everything—her first steps, her first day of school, her first love. She became my whole world, the heart of my home.
And then there was George. Emilia’s boyfriend—excuse me, fiancé. The boy had been around for years, ever since he and Emilia were fourteen. Childhood sweethearts, inseparable. Always walking through the fields together, whispering about their dreams and the future. When they turned twenty, George proposed, and I couldn’t have been happier.
The night of their engagement, both families gathered. We toasted to their future, talked about the wedding, and even discussed the possibility of merging our farms one day. Everything seemed perfect.
But then, things began to change. At first, it was small—a shift in the air. Then, I started hearing noises late at night. Doors opening and closing, soft footsteps. I even thought about installing an alarm system. Imagine that—an old woman like me, suddenly worried about intruders in a house that had always been safe.
Then, one night, I couldn’t sleep. The air felt heavy, pressing down on me. I decided a warm cup of milk might help. As I tiptoed back to my room, mug in hand, I heard it again—the front door opening and shutting, ever so softly.
Frowning, I stopped at the railing on the second floor and peeked down. There she was. Emilia. Moving quietly, careful with each step, glancing around as if making sure no one saw her. My heart tightened. What was she up to?
The next morning, I sat at the kitchen table, watching Emilia stir sugar into her tea. She avoided my eyes.
“Emilia, is there something you want to tell me?” I asked, keeping my voice calm.
She lifted her cup and took a slow sip. “No, Grandma.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Hmm. We must have mice in the house. I keep hearing noises at night.”
“Mice?” she said, forcing a laugh. “That’s bad. They’ll chew through everything.”
“Yes. And for some reason, the doors open and close on their own. Strange, don’t you think?”
“Maybe it’s the wind? The windows are old. You always say they need fixing.”
“Well, alright,” I said, watching her closely.
That night, I sat in my chair, listening to the quiet house, waiting. Then, at last, the soft creak of the front door. I moved fast, stepping onto the porch just in time to see Emilia hurrying toward the stable. My heart pounded as I followed her, careful to stay in the shadows.
Inside, hushed voices reached my ears. Emilia’s and a man’s. I crept closer, holding my breath.
Then I saw them. My granddaughter standing close to David, our stable hand. Their hands touching. Then—a kiss.
“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!” My voice echoed through the stable, making the horses stir in their stalls.
Emilia and David sprang apart. She clutched her chest, her face pale. David stepped back, his hands raised as if caught stealing.
“Grandma?!” Emilia gasped. “What are you doing here?!”
“What am I doing here?! I should be asking you that! My granddaughter sneaks off every night, and I come to find her betraying her fiancé with this… this…” My hands trembled as I pointed at David.
“His name is David!” Emilia shouted. Her chin lifted, her eyes defiant. “And I love him!”
“And what about George?” I asked.
She pressed her lips into a tight line. “I’ve been with George since I was fourteen. I was a kid! How can anyone expect me to still want the same thing?!”
“You are allowed to change your mind,” I said, my voice shaking. “But this? Sneaking around? Lying? This is not right!”
“I know!” she cried. “I know, Grandma. But I was scared! I didn’t want to hurt you, or George, or anyone!”
I took a deep breath. “Then you need to make a choice. Because this? This can’t continue.”
She hesitated. Then, she swallowed hard. “We’ll get married next week. George and I.”
I nodded. “Then David stays. But if I see you near him again, he’s gone.”
David turned to Emilia, his hand reaching for hers. “Emilia…”
Her fingers trembled as they brushed against his. “Goodbye, David.”
The wedding preparations moved fast. Too fast. Emilia drifted through the house like a shadow. There was no excitement, no laughter. Only silence.
The morning of the wedding, I knocked on Emilia’s door. No answer. I pushed it open, expecting to find her getting ready. The room was empty.
The bed was neatly made. The wedding dress still hung by the window. Then I saw it—a folded letter on the pillow with ‘Grandma’ written on the front. My hands shook as I picked it up.
Dear Grandma, thank you for all the years you raised and loved me. But I can’t give you what you want.
I can’t marry George when my heart belongs to someone else. David and I are leaving.
I won’t tell you where yet, but when I’m ready, I will write. Just know that we are happy. I love you. Your granddaughter, Emilia.
I sank onto the bed, pressing the letter to my chest. The room felt too quiet. Too still. My sweet girl was gone.
If I hadn’t gone to the stable that night, maybe she would still be here. Maybe she would have stayed.
My heart ached, knowing I had driven her away. But all I could do now was wait. Wait for the day she would write. Wait for the chance to still be part of her life.
