When my grandmother passed, a part of me died with her. She was no ordinary elder—she was the last thread tying me to my father. She raised me, held my hand when I was scared, fed me pies when exams overwhelmed me, and called every week just to say, “My darling, I’m praying for you.”
After Dad’s death, my mother quickly found another man. Soon after, Max came along—my half-brother. We never quarreled, but neither were we close. We belonged to different worlds, different histories. He was her golden child, her purpose, her project. I, on the other hand, was a reminder of her past, of her first marriage. We lived under the same roof but never truly together.
Though my grandmother remained my mother’s former mother-in-law, they stayed in touch. She helped, she supported. But all her warmth and love were poured into me. And it was to me she bequeathed her one-bedroom flat in central London—a deliberate, thought-out decision. We’d spoken of it while she lived. She’d say, “Emily, I know how hard things are for you. You’re studying, pushing forward. Let this be your safety net.”
I left for another city—enrolled in university, then pursued research. One year remained. Grandmother followed my progress with pride, calling often. The night before she died, we spoke on the phone. She sounded bright, lively. By morning, she was gone. Her heart had given out.
It shattered me. I couldn’t return straightaway; it took three months. When I did, I only wanted to visit her flat—to sit, to weep, to remember, to sip tea by the window as we’d done together. But when I unlocked the door, I found strangers inside, the smell of paint, the clamour of construction. The place was mid-renovation.
“Who are you?” I asked, baffled.
“Hired by Max. We’re turning this into a nursery. There’s a baby on the way.”
I stood there, silent. Max? My brother?
I called my mother. She answered as if braced for it.
“Yes, I gave him the keys. Emily, they’ve nowhere to live, and a child coming. You never mentioned the flat, never asked—we assumed you didn’t need it. They’ll stay five years, save up, then move…”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Was this some cruel joke?
“Mum, that flat was left to me. It’s mine. This wasn’t your decision to make.”
“Must you make a scene? He’s family. You’ve said yourself Max isn’t at fault. Would you throw them onto the street?”
Just like that. No call. No discussion. No respect. They simply decided, “You stayed quiet, so it can’t matter.” I hadn’t stayed quiet—I’d been studying, grieving, surviving. And they… they took what was never theirs to take.
I don’t blame Max. He’s always done as Mother says—her obedient son. But her? She knew how I clung to my grandmother, how I struggled, lived in rented rooms, pinched pennies… Yet she erased my rights in one stroke of her “loving” hand.
Now I don’t know what to do. Yes, I pity Max—his family, his child. Yes, I live abroad and might never return. But forgiveness? Impossible. If I could sell the flat, I’d buy a place where I am now, or at least rent it to cover my costs. Instead, I pay strangers each month while my own walls are papered and floors relaid without my consent.
I’m furious. Not for greed, but because my right was stolen—to memory, to choice, to what’s justly mine. I thought family stood by you. Now I know: sometimes betrayal cuts closest. Right at home. From those who should have defended you first.
