**Diary Entry**
For five years, my sons didn’t bother to visit me. Yet the moment I mentioned leaving my flat to my niece, they swooped in like vultures.
I’ve got two sons, three grandchildren, two daughters-in-law—and still, I’ve lived like an orphan. The second I hinted at passing my home to my niece, they suddenly remembered they had a mother. They rushed over, made a scene. And it became painfully clear—all they want is the property.
When my boys were born, I was overjoyed, thinking they’d be my support in old age. Well, I was wrong. The one who cares for me isn’t my own child but my niece—who, mind you, has her own parents: my brother and his wife.
Perhaps my late husband and I failed somewhere, raising sons who turned out like this. While their father was alive, they’d drop by occasionally. The moment he passed, they vanished. Five years now, and not a single visit.
They live in the same city, mind you. Not right around the corner, but a mere forty minutes by bus. Both married, families of their own. I’ve got two grandsons and a granddaughter I’ve never even held. And it’s hard alone—my legs ache with age, and after an injury, I can barely walk. Getting through to them is a saga. Always the same promises: “We’ll pop by soon, we’ll help,” but words never turn into action.
When the neighbours flooded my kitchen, I finally caved and asked for help—just a simple patch job on the ceiling. Called one son—he promised. Called the other—same. Neither showed. Had to hire a handyman. Paid without complaint—money’s not the point. But my heart broke: had I become a stranger to my own children?
Then the fridge gave out. I’m clueless about these things, and salesmen love swindling pensioners. Asked my sons to come along, help me pick one. Their reply? “They’ll explain everything in the shop.” Had to ring my brother—his daughter and her husband stepped in instead.
Then the pandemic hit. The boys called once a month with a token, “You all right?” That was it. Advised me to “stay in, order groceries online,” but never explained how. My niece? She showed me the ropes. Calls her parents daily, sorts their food, medicine, looks after them. And she didn’t leave me out.
Realising my own children had abandoned me, she started visiting, helping with chores, cooking, sitting with me when I was ill. Even just dropping by for tea and a chat. Every holiday, she invited me—her family, brother, parents, and me. Her little girl calls me Grandma.
So I thought: why not leave the flat to her? She’s never asked for a thing, yet gives so much. This isn’t a “gift”—it’s gratitude.
As I was heading to the solicitor, my eldest rang. Asked where I was going. I told him. Then came the shouting, the accusations that I’d lost my mind. I listened—and carried on.
That evening, a knock at the door. Both sons. Brought my granddaughter. Even a cake. A miracle, you’d think. Except it wasn’t about love. Straight to business—they insisted my niece would toss me out, that she wasn’t family, that *they* were my blood. How could I give my home to an outsider?
I looked at them, listened, then said, “Thanks for the concern, but I’ll decide.” They stormed off, slamming the door, vowing I’d never see the grandkids again—not that I should expect their help anyway.
And I won’t, dears. Five years without you—I managed. Now you only care because there’s a flat at stake. *You’re* the strangers here. I’ll stick to my choice: the niece gets it. And if she ever does throw me out? So be it. That’s my gamble. But I trust her. She’s got a heart. Unlike you.
**Lesson learned:** Blood doesn’t always mean loyalty. Sometimes, family is the one who chooses you.
