“Couldn’t care for her own mother, but suddenly has the energy to take me to court!”
When I was a little girl, my whole world was my grandmother. She’s the one who raised me, taught me about life, kissed my scraped knees when I fell, and held me close whenever Mum vanished off chasing “her happiness.” Mum was always on the move—one bloke after another—and she never had the time or the heart for me. She’d turn up like a guest—stay a day or two, toss a few empty words my way, eyes full of someone else’s indifference, then disappear again.
But Nan… Nan was everything. She was my mother, my friend, my rock. She gave me all of herself—her time, her love, her last penny. Even after I grew up and left for university in Brighton, she stayed the closest thing to me in this world. But life’s cruel like that—she fell seriously ill soon after, needing round-the-clock care. I dropped out of uni and came home. Money was tight, so I reached out to Mum for help. Every time, all I got were sobs and excuses:
“I can barely stand on my own two feet… My blood pressure, my heart, my joints… You’ve no idea how hard it is for me. I might end up disabled!”
Listening to this day after day, I’d just sit there baffled—why even say it if she had no intention of helping? One evening, Nan, watching me’s frustration, quietly said:
“She’s building herself an alibi for later. So no one can accuse her of neglecting her own mother. ‘Oh, I was too poorly myself, couldn’t lift a finger.’”
And sure enough, Mum kept spinning the same tale—until Nan signed the flat over to me. Two years later, when Nan passed, suddenly Mum was miraculously “recovered.” Forgot all about her so-called ailments and went straight to court, claiming I’d taken advantage of Nan—that she “wasn’t in her right mind,” so the will and deed should be overturned. And off we went—paperwork, lawsuits, hearings… I couldn’t believe the energy she had! Just weeks before, she’d barely been able to walk, and now she was sprinting between solicitors’ offices like an Olympic athlete.
Day by day, I realised—it wasn’t about justice, just pure greed. Where was all this fight when Nan needed her? Where was this energy when I, a twenty-year-old girl, was breaking my back caring for her alone—no money, no help? Back then, all Mum could do was wail down the phone about how awful *she* had it. Now? She’s unstoppable, spinning lies to anyone who’ll listen—how I “stole” Nan’s flat, left her destitute, betrayed family.
Funny thing is—she never spent a single night at Nan’s bedside. Never bought her medicine. Never even stayed long enough to hear her laboured breaths in the dark. That was all me. I was the one who held Nan’s hand when it went cold, who cried at her pillow when she took her last breath.
The day Nan signed the flat over, she looked me dead in the eye and said:
“I don’t want your mother getting a single brick of this place. You were here. Only you. This is yours—you’ve earned it.”
I don’t want revenge. I don’t want a war. But I won’t let anyone—not even my own mother—trample over what Nan wanted. I’ll fight—not for the flat, but for her. For the love she gave me. For what’s right.
Let Mum file all the lawsuits she wants. Let her play the victim. I know the truth. And as long as I’ve got a voice, I won’t let her drown it out.
