“Couldn’t care for her own mother, but suddenly has the strength to drag me to court!”
When I was a little girl, my world was my grandmother. She was the one who raised me, taught me about life, bandaged my scraped knees when I fell, and held me close whenever my mother vanished yet again in search of “her happiness.” Mum was always off somewhere—with one bloke, then another—and she never had the time or the will to spare for me. She’d turn up like a guest, staying a day or two, offering a few empty words and a sidelong glance of indifference before disappearing once more.
But Nan… Nan was everything. She was my mother, my friend, my rock. She gave me all she had—her time, her heart, her last penny. Even after I grew up and left for university in another city, Nan remained the dearest person in my life. Then, as luck would have it, fate took a cruel turn—she fell seriously ill and needed round-the-clock care. I dropped out of uni and came home. Money was tight, so I asked Mum for help. But every time, all I got were wails 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 could end up disabled!”
Hearing this day after day left me baffled—why even say it if she had no intention of helping? One evening, Nan noticed my confusion and quietly said,
“She’s laying the groundwork for an alibi. So later, no one can accuse her of neglecting her own mother. See? She was ‘too ill’ to do a thing.”
And sure enough, Mum never missed a chance to play up her “frailty”—until Nan signed the flat over to me. A few years later, when Nan passed, something incredible happened. Suddenly, Mum found her strength, all her ailments forgotten, and raced straight to court. Claimed I’d taken advantage of Nan’s condition, that she hadn’t been “in her right mind,” and demanded the will and deed be overturned. Then came the paperwork, the hearings, the endless back-and-forth… I couldn’t fathom how she managed it all. Just weeks before, she’d been “too weak to walk,” yet now she spent hours running between solicitors and courts.
Every day, I grew more stunned by the sheer spite and greed in her. Where was this strength when Nan needed her? Where was this energy when I, a twenty-year-old girl, struggled to care for a bedridden woman with no money and no help? Back then, all she did was sob down the phone about how awful she felt. Now? Full of vigour, sharp as a tack. Spinning tales to anyone who’ll listen—how her poor mother was robbed, how she was cheated and left destitute.
But here’s the thing: not once did she sit at Nan’s bedside. Not one night did she keep watch. Not a single pill did she buy. That was all on me. Only I knew how Nan suffered, how she clenched her teeth against the pain, how she drifted in and out of consciousness, how she whispered for water in the dark. Only I held her hand as she took her last breath, felt her skin go cold, wept silent tears at her pillow…
When Nan signed the flat over to me, she looked me in the eye and said,
“I don’t want your mother getting a single thing. You were here. Only you. This is yours. You’ve earned it.”
I’m not out for revenge. I don’t want a war. But I won’t let anyone—not even my own mother—trample on the wishes of the woman who gave me everything. I’ll fight for this—not for the flat, but for Nan’s memory. For love. For what’s right.
Let Mum file her lawsuits, spin her stories, play the martyr. I know the truth. And as long as I have a voice, I won’t let her take that too.
