My name is Margaret Elizabeth, and I’m sixty-nine. I’ve got two sons, three grandsons, and two daughters-in-law. You’d think with a family that size, I’d be swimming in love and attention. But these last few years, I might as well have been an orphan—alone in my flat, with a dodgy knee and a phone that hasn’t rung in weeks.
After my husband passed, everything went pear-shaped. While he was alive, the boys would visit now and then—holidays, errands, the usual. But the moment we buried him, they vanished like mist. Five years. Five long, quiet years without so much as a glimpse of them. And they live in the same city! Granted, it’s a forty-minute bus ride, but still.
I never nagged. Just called. Asked for help. When the neighbours upstairs leaked water into my kitchen—nothing major, just a peeling ceiling—I rang both sons. Both promised to pop round at the weekend. Neither showed. Ended up hiring a handyman. It wasn’t about the money—it stung. Stung that the boys I raised couldn’t spare an hour for their own mum.
Then my fridge packed up. I’m hopeless with gadgets, terrified of getting swindled at the shop. Called the lads again—*”Mum, there are sales assistants, you’ll manage.”* So I rang my brother instead. He sent his daughter, my niece Emily, and her husband. They sorted everything, bless them.
When the pandemic hit, my sons suddenly remembered I existed. Called once a month to lecture me about staying home and ordering groceries online. Only problem? I hadn’t a clue how. Emily, though—she taught me, set up my first delivery, left a list of pharmacies that delivered, and started ringing nearly every day.
At first, I felt guilty. Emily’s got her own parents, her own life, a husband, a little girl. But she was the only one who dropped by just because. Brought soup, medicine, helped me tidy up, even washed my windows. Once, she came over just for tea and a natter. Her daughter—my great-niece—calls me Granny. First time I’d heard that word in years.
So I made a decision: if my own flesh and blood couldn’t be bothered, if all they cared about was what they could take, not give—well, the flat would go to the one who actually showed up. I went to the council office to ask about changing my will. And wouldn’t you know it? That’s the day my eldest son finally rang. Asked where I was going.
I told him the truth.
All hell broke loose. Shouting, swearing, accusations. *”Have you lost the plot?!” “That’s our inheritance!” “She’ll kick you out the second you sign!”*
That evening, they turned up. Both of them. First time in five years. Brought their daughter—my granddaughter, whom I’d never met. Brought a cake. Sat down at the table. I dared to hope—maybe they’d had a change of heart? Nope. Started wheedling, reminding me I had real children, that I couldn’t just hand the flat to an outsider. Accused Emily of being a gold-digger, spun horror stories about her turfing me out.
I looked at them and wondered—where were you all this time? Why only care when there’s something to lose?
I thanked them for their concern. Said my mind was made up. They left, slamming the door, vowing I’d never see my grandsons again or get so much as a lift to the shops.
Funny thing is, I’m not scared. Not because I don’t care—but because there’s nothing left to lose. I’ve been alone for years. Now it’s just official.
As for Emily… If she ever does what my sons claim she will—well, I’ll have been wrong. But my gut says I’m not. She never asked for a thing. Not money, not the flat. Just showed up. Just was kind. Just acted like family should.
And that’s worth more than blood.
