**Diary Entry**
Why take out a mortgage when you can just wait for Granny to pass and inherit her flat? That’s what my husband’s cousin, Thomas, seemed to think. Married to a woman named Emily, with three kids, their whole family lived in quiet anticipation of their inheritance. They refused to deal with loans, preferring to daydream about the moment Granny’s cosy London flat would fall into their hands. For now, they squeezed into Emily’s mother’s cramped two-bed in Brighton, right by the seaside, and it was plain to see how much it wore them down. Thomas and Emily whispered more and more about how to “hurry things along” with Granny.
But Margaret—Granny—was an absolute gem. At seventy-five, she brimmed with energy, lived vibrantly, and never complained about her health. Her central London flat was always open to friends, she’d mastered her smartphone, visited galleries, went to the theatre, and even indulged in a bit of harmless flirtation at the local seniors’ dance nights. She radiated joy, her life a masterclass in savouring every moment. But to Thomas and Emily, that wasn’t admirable—just irritating. They were tired of waiting.
Finally, they snapped. They decided Margaret should sign the flat over to Thomas and move into a care home. They didn’t even hide their intentions, insisting it was “for her own good.” But Margaret wasn’t one to roll over. She refused flatly, and that lit the fuse. Thomas flew into a rage, calling her “selfish” and claiming she “owed it to the grandchildren.” Emily fanned the flames, muttering that Granny had “overstayed her welcome.”
When my husband, James, and I found out, we were horrified. Margaret had always dreamed of travelling—seeing the Taj Mahal, breathing in the spice markets of Delhi, wandering the streets of Mumbai. We suggested she move in with us, rent out her flat, and save up for the adventure. She agreed, and soon her spacious three-bed in the heart of London was earning a steady income. When Thomas and Emily caught wind of it, they exploded. They insisted the flat was rightfully theirs and demanded Margaret let them move in. They even accused James of “manipulating” her for the inheritance. Thomas went so far as to demand the rental money, calling it “his rightful share.” We shut it down. No chance.
Emily started turning up at ours almost daily—sometimes alone, sometimes with the kids, arms laden with ridiculous gifts. She’d ask after Margaret, but we saw right through it—she and Thomas still hoped Granny would “pop off” and leave them everything. Their greed was staggering.
Meanwhile, Margaret saved enough for her trip to India and came back glowing, suitcases stuffed with stories and photos. We urged her not to stop—sell the flat, keep travelling, and live out her golden years with us in peace. She thought it over and took the plunge. The flat sold for a tidy sum, and with the proceeds, she bought a sweet little studio on London’s outskirts and set the rest aside for more adventures.
She toured Spain, Austria, and Switzerland. In Switzerland, during a boat trip on Lake Geneva, she met a Frenchman named Jean. Their romance was straight out of a film—at seventy-five, she married him! James and I flew to France for the wedding, and it was magical—seeing her radiant in white, surrounded by flowers and laughter. Margaret had earned every bit of happiness. She’d worked hard, raised her family, helped her grandkids, and now, finally, she was living for herself.
When Thomas heard about the sale, he lost it. He demanded she hand over the studio, insisting she “had enough already.” How he planned to fit five people in there, I’ll never know. But we don’t care. We’re just glad Margaret found her place in the sun. As for Thomas and Emily? Well, their story’s a reminder that even family sometimes shows their true colours when money’s involved.
