Emily, twelve years old, had cared for her grandmother, but one request shattered everything.
I want to share a story from my family that still weighs heavily on my heart. It’s about my cousin, Emily—a kind, hardworking, and compassionate person who, for the past twelve years, visited her grandmother, Margaret Thompson, every day after work. She cleaned, brought groceries, scrubbed windows, polished the stove until it gleamed, hand-washed bedsheets, listened to her grandmother’s complaints, and even massaged her legs when they swelled. She did it all without a word of complaint—simply because this was the grandmother who had raised her when her own mother was too busy with her younger brother and career.
Emily always saw Margaret as her closest family. It was her grandmother who taught her to make perfect roast dinners, took her to the theatre when her mother couldn’t, helped with homework, and comforted her when school was tough. Emily grew up, got a job at a bank, had a son, and still, Margaret remained her pillar of support. When Margaret began to decline—her blood pressure unstable, her memory fading—Emily took charge without hesitation. Meters to read? Emily handled it. Pharmacy runs? Emily. Insulin injections? Emily. All while Margaret’s own daughter—Emily’s mother—lived in her own flat, had a steady job, drove a car, yet never once brought over a warm bowl of soup or even a jar of jam.
Then, Emily lost her job. Downsizing, as it often goes, without warning. Her savings dwindled fast, and she knew she wouldn’t qualify for a mortgage. For the first time, she mustered the courage to ask something that made her hands tremble. One Saturday, after cleaning, hanging laundry, and brewing Margaret’s mint tea, she sat beside her and, as calmly as she could, said:
“Gran, I don’t ask much. But… maybe you could leave the flat to me? Not now, just… for the future. You know how much I love you. I don’t want to raise my child in someone else’s space. I’m like your own…”
Margaret’s reply was ice-cold.
“No, Emily. The flat will go to my daughter. Your mother. That’s how it should be. After that—she can do as she pleases.”
Emily couldn’t speak. Her throat tightened, her head spun. It was as if all those years of care—all the scrubbed floors and homemade meals—had meant nothing.
She left in tears. Didn’t even say goodbye. Days later, she still hasn’t found the strength to return. She sits at home, staring blankly, asking me:
“I never asked for anything all those years. Didn’t I earn it? Is it wrong to want stability for my child? Why did Gran, who loved me so much, suddenly see greed in it?”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve known Margaret since childhood—she’s stern, set in her ways. To her, tradition is sacred. No matter who cares for her, the flat must go “down the family line” to her daughter. Everything else? Just “duty,” not a transaction.
But is love measured by bloodline? Shouldn’t gratitude go to the one who stayed? Who gave without asking, simply because they loved?
Now Emily doesn’t know how to face her grandmother. She won’t disrespect her, but she can’t pretend nothing happened. Her heart aches. She feels betrayed.
I’m not taking sides, but sometimes, I think the elderly are just afraid. Afraid to admit that it’s their grandchild who’s closest—not their child. Afraid a signature will spark family strife. Afraid of change. Maybe Margaret is just protecting herself.
As for Emily? She still cooks—but now, just for her son. And she teaches him to be grateful. Because ingratitude cuts deeper than any blade.
