When I arrived at my granddad’s house and saw him sitting on the porch with a suitcase, a few trash bags, and a little injured puppy in his arms, my heart broke. He was 86, gentle to the core, and had spent his life loving others quietly. After Grandma passed away, my dad and stepmom moved in “to help,” but it quickly became clear that my stepmom, Linda, was more interested in redecorating than preserving Grandma’s memory. Bit by bit, she replaced everything that made the house feel like home—photos, china, curtains—until even Granddad seemed to fade into the background.
Then, one rainy evening, Granddad found a shivering puppy by the roadside and rescued her. He named her Penny and, for the first time since Grandma’s passing, found comfort again. But Linda saw the puppy as a nuisance and told him she didn’t want it in the house. When he refused to abandon the animal, she told him to leave instead. That’s how I found him that day—homeless in front of his own home, clutching the only bit of light he’d found in years.
