“Mum, how could you do this?”
I still can’t believe that conversation with my mum even happened. I called her just to say hello, to ask how she was doing, and suddenly I found myself at the centre of a family drama that turned everything upside down. “Mum, are you serious?” I nearly shouted down the phone. “I’m your only son. I have a son—your only grandson—and you haven’t even met him. And now you’re signing your flat over to some stranger? And then you greet me like nothing’s wrong—‘Hello, love, long time no speak’?” Mum stayed silent on the other end of the line, and I could feel resentment and confusion bubbling up inside me. How could she do this?
My name is James. I’m thirty-five, my mum’s only son. Her name is Margaret Wilson, and we’ve always had a complicated relationship. When I was a child, she worked two jobs to keep us afloat, and I’ll always be grateful for that. But her strictness and her habit of making decisions without consulting anyone often drove a wedge between us. After I married Emily and our son Oliver was born, I hoped Mum would grow closer to our family. But she never came to meet her grandson, always making excuses—too busy, not feeling well. I didn’t push, calling once a month and sending photos of Oliver, but her replies were always brief: “Lovely, darling. Happy for you.” And now, I find out she’s given her flat away to some woman I don’t even know.
It all started when my aunt, Louise—Mum’s sister—rang me and told me Margaret had signed the deed of gift for her flat. At first, I thought it was a mistake—maybe Louise had gotten it wrong? But she was certain: Mum had transferred the property to a woman named Claire, who, according to her, “helps around the house.” I was stunned. Mum lives in a small town, in a modest two-bedroom flat she and Dad bought years ago. It wasn’t just bricks and mortar—it was our family home, the place I grew up. And now it belonged to a stranger?
I rang Mum straight away to get the truth. She answered calmly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Yes, James, I’ve given the flat to Claire,” she said. “She’s a kind woman—she does my shopping, helps me tidy up. You’re far away, and you’ve got your own life.” I didn’t know what to say. Sure, Emily and I live three hours away, but I’d always offered help! I called, I asked if she needed anything, I even suggested hiring a carer. Every time, she brushed me off: “Don’t fuss, I can manage.” And now she was telling me I was “too far,” while Claire was her lifeline?
I asked her who Claire was and why she trusted her so much. Turned out, she was a neighbour who’d started popping in a couple of years ago, helping out here and there. According to Mum, she was “like a daughter”—cooked meals, picked up her prescriptions, even drove her to the countryside. I didn’t mind Mum accepting help, but giving away her home? That wasn’t a box of chocolates! I tried to explain how unfair it was to me and Oliver. “Mum, I’m your son. Oliver’s your grandson. You’ve never even seen him, and now you’re handing everything to a stranger? What were you thinking?” But Mum just sighed and said, “James, you never visit. Claire does. And it’s my decision.”
The resentment kept building. Yes, I didn’t visit every month—I had work, bills, a mortgage. But I always thought Mum and I were family, that she cared about our future. Oliver’s only four; he’s growing up fast. I’d always imagined that flat might one day help him—pay for university, maybe, or give him a start in life. Now, it was all going to Claire, someone I’d never even heard of before. I asked Mum if she wasn’t worried Claire was taking advantage. But she shut me down: “I know what I’m doing. Claire’s a good person.”
When I hung up, I couldn’t calm down. Emily, seeing how upset I was, suggested we drive to Mum’s and talk face-to-face. So we did—packed Oliver into the car and made the trip. Mum welcomed us warmly, hugging Oliver, but I could see the tension in her. Over tea, I brought up the flat again. I didn’t want an argument, but I needed to understand. “Mum, explain this to me,” I said. “If you need help, I can visit more. I can arrange for someone to come in. But why give her the flat?” She looked at me, exhausted, and said, “James, I don’t want to be a burden. Claire looks after me. You’re busy. I did what I thought was best.”
Those words hurt more than I expected. Did she really think she’d be a burden to us? I tried to tell her we were her family—that Oliver wanted to know his nan, that I wanted to be there for her. But Mum just shook her head. Right then, it hit me: she felt alone, and Claire had filled that gap. It was painful to realise, but I was starting to see things from her side.
We drove home, and I still don’t know what to do. Legally, there’s no challenging the deed—Mum was in her right mind when she signed it. But I can’t shake the thought that she chose a stranger over us. I’ve decided I’ll call more, visit more, bring Oliver so he knows his nan. Maybe one day she’ll see we’re her real family. As for Claire… I hope she genuinely cares for Mum and isn’t just after the flat. But this whole mess taught me one thing: don’t put off speaking to the people you love. Life’s too short to lose touch with those who matter.
