“We decided not to leave the kids any inheritance. Let it be a life lesson for them.”
Emily and I always tried to be good parents—not strict authoritarians or preachy moralists, just people our children could rely on. We raised our son and daughter with love and patience, believing trust was everything. We never snooped through their phones, micromanaged their lives, or shouted them down. Every issue was resolved calmly, over dinner, with words—never anger. I thought that’s how children should be raised: with respect. But now I realise—they mistook our kindness for weakness.
Maybe we should’ve been firmer. More watchful. But they’re family, aren’t they? When it’s your own flesh and blood, you see them through love, not truth. We didn’t notice how cold, selfish, and calculating they were becoming. We didn’t *want* to believe it. Big mistake.
One day, I stayed home with a fever. Our daughter, Lily, didn’t know. She was 17. She came in with a friend and headed straight to the kitchen, where they opened a bottle of wine. Then, I overheard a conversation I’ll never forget.
At first, just girlish chatter. Then—
*”Jack and I nicked some money from Dad’s wallet again. He didn’t even notice. Honestly, they’re such pushovers—clueless.”*
I froze. My chest tightened. Our little girl, who called me *”Daddy”*, hugged me, smiled at me—was talking about us like we were nothing. Mocking us. And in that moment, I knew—this wasn’t a one-off. It was the truth, plain and simple.
I walked in. Her friend spotted me first and went quiet. Lily kept talking till she heard my footsteps. When she turned, her face went white—like a thief caught red-handed. We locked eyes, but neither of us spoke. I just grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and left.
That night, I put a lock on our bedroom door. When Emily came home, I told her everything, softening it where I could. She cried. Said she’d felt them drifting for ages but hoped it was just teenage phase.
They caught on quickly, of course. Suddenly, it was all *”Mummy”*, *”Daddy”*, fake hugs, forced kindness. But we weren’t fooled. Within months, the act dropped. Cold shoulders, closed doors. No more pretence.
When our son, Jack, turned 18, Emily and I sold our big London flat, bought the kids a modest two-bed flat—but kept it in our names. For ourselves? A fixer-upper cottage in the Cotswolds. Renovated it in a year. We started living for *us*. And the kids? They forgot us.
No calls, no visits. Only when they needed cash. That was it. No warmth—just transactions.
So, we made our final decision: no will. The cottage, the land, the savings—all going to charity. Better to help people who *need* it than reward those who think they’re *owed* it.
Maybe one day they’ll understand. Maybe they’ll realise parents aren’t ATMs, trust isn’t naivety, and love doesn’t mean ignoring betrayal.
For now? We’re living. Quietly. Peacefully. Knowing we did the right thing.
