It had been five years since my sons last visited me, but the moment they heard I intended to leave my flat to my niece—suddenly, they came running.
I have two sons, three grandchildren, two daughters-in-law… yet I live like an orphan. For years, I believed I’d raised boys who would one day be my comfort. How wrong I was. Five years had passed since my husband’s death—not once in all that time did either of them cross my threshold. Not a call, not a letter, not a visit. Then I spoke aloud: I’d leave the flat to my niece. And just like that, they appeared.
I bore two boys, certain sons stayed closest to their mothers. I believed I’d never be lonely in old age. My late husband and I raised them with love, gave them education, helped them stand on their own. While their father lived, they visited, however rarely. But the day we buried him, I might as well have vanished.
They live in the same city—a forty-minute bus ride away. Both married, with families of their own. I have grandsons and a granddaughter I’ve never held. Since my fall, walking pains me, but ringing them is useless—always busy, always promising to call back, never doing so. I learned long ago their words meant nothing.
When my upstairs neighbours flooded my kitchen, I called the eldest—no answer. The youngest promised to come but never did. All I needed was someone to repaint the ceiling stain. I hired a handyman instead. It wasn’t the money; it was that my own flesh couldn’t spare an hour for me.
When my old fridge broke, I dialled them both. “Just come with me to the shop,” I pleaded, “I’m afraid they’ll cheat me.” They said, “Mum, don’t fret, the shopkeeper will help.” In the end, I went with my brother and his daughter—my niece.
Then the pandemic came. Suddenly, they remembered they had a mother. Monthly calls, warnings—”Stay inside,” “Order groceries,” “Be careful.” But I didn’t know how. My niece taught me—showed me the apps, brought my medicine, sat with me when I was ill. She called every evening: “Aunt Joan, how are you?” We grew closer than I’d ever been with my own sons.
I began spending holidays with my brother’s family. My niece’s little girl calls me Granny. And at some point, I realised: I may have sons, but my niece is my true kin. She asks for nothing. Just stays. Just cares.
So I decided—since my sons forgot they had a mother, my flat would go to the one who stood by me. I drew up the will, leaving it to my niece. She didn’t know. I only meant to do right by the one who did right by me.
But someone must have talked. That same evening, my eldest rang—voice tight, words sharp. “Is it true?” he demanded. “You’re giving the flat away?” When I said yes, he shouted, “Have you lost your mind? It’s family property!” I hung up.
Come nightfall, the doorbell rang. Both sons. With a cake. With my granddaughter. All smiles. Then it started—”You mustn’t,” “She’ll throw you out,” “We’re your blood,” “You’re handing it to an outsider.” I listened in silence. Then I said, “Thank you for your concern. But my choice is made.”
They left, slamming the door. Told me if I signed the papers, I’d never see my grandchildren again. Darling boys, I haven’t seen anything from you in years but indifference. You came after five—and only when you stood to lose. Not me. The flat.
I don’t regret it. If my niece turns cruel—if she casts me out—then so be it. But I don’t believe she will. She’s kind. Honest. Real. As for you—live with your conscience. If you’ve any left.
