Every night, my granddaughter disappeared into the stable, believing I was asleep. I would hear the door creak and soft footsteps in the dark. After it happened again and again, I decided to follow her and uncover the truth. But when I finally discovered her secret, I wished I never had.
I’ve lived on this earth for many years, and I have to say—true happiness is simple. It’s the same as it had been for our ancestors: land, nature, and animals. Hard work, fresh air, and the satisfaction of seeing something grow with your own hands.
You might think I’m saying this just because I own a farm, because I have a stake in making people believe in this kind of life. Maybe there is some truth in that. But believe me, nothing in the world compares to spending a long day planting seedlings and then sitting on the porch in the evening with a cup of homemade herbal tea, knowing that in time, my work will bear fruit.
However, my farm is not my only happiness, nor is it my greatest pride. That honor belongs to my granddaughter, Emilia.
She’d been left in my care when she was just three years old, 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 too big for a child. They wanted adventure, careers, travel. 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 her first steps, her first day of school, her first love. She was my 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. They were childhood sweethearts, inseparable, always walking through the fields together, whispering about their dreams and plans.
By the time they turned twenty, George proposed. I couldn’t have been happier. The night of the engagement, both families gathered. We toasted to their future, talked about the wedding, even discussed the possibility of merging our farms one day. It all 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.
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. Then I saw her. Emilia.
She moved quietly, careful with each step, glancing around as if making sure no one saw her. My heart tightened. What was she up to?
I barely breathed as I stepped back into my room before she could notice me.
Whatever it was, my sweet granddaughter was hiding something. And I was going to find out what.
The next morning, I sat at the kitchen table, watching Emilia stir sugar into her tea. The steam curled around her face, but 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.”
I folded my hands in my lap. “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,” she said, scratching her nose—the second sign she was lying.
I sighed. “Well, alright. I suppose I’ll just have to look into it myself.”
That night, I made up my mind. I wouldn’t sleep until I knew the truth. I sat in my chair, listening to the quiet house, waiting for any sound. 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 was standing close to David, our stable hand. Their hands touched, and then—he kissed her.
“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. She ran a shaky hand through her hair, trying to smooth it down. “What are you 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… stable hand?!”
“His name is David!” Emilia shouted. “And I love him!”
My breath caught. “And what about George?”
Her lips pressed 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?!”
“Emilia!” My voice rose. “How can you say that? He is your fiancé!”
“So what?! Does that mean I have no choice? Am I not allowed to make mistakes?!”
“You are making a mistake right now! But don’t worry, Grandma will help.” I turned to David. “You’re fired!”
“What?!” Emilia’s eyes widened.
“Yes,” I said, my voice firm. “No more distractions. You will focus on your fiancé.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t argue.
The wedding preparations moved fast. Too fast. There was no excitement, no laughter. Only planning, rushing, and silence.
The morning of the wedding arrived. The sun was barely up when I knocked on Emilia’s door. No answer. I pushed it open, expecting to find her getting ready. But the room was empty.
The bed was neatly made, the wedding dress still hanging 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 and opened it.
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. 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.