“Mother, how could you do this?”
I still can’t believe that conversation with my mum even happened. I called her just to say hello, ask how she was, and suddenly found myself at the heart of a family drama that turned everything upside down. “Mum, are you serious?” I practically shouted into the phone. “I’m your only son, I have a son—your only grandson—you’ve never even met, and 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, while I felt resentment bubbling up inside me, mixed with complete bewilderment. How could she do this?
My name is Edward, I’m thirty-five, and I’m my mother’s only son. Mum—Margaret Elizabeth—and I have always had a complicated relationship. When I was little, she worked two jobs to provide for us, and I’ll always be grateful for that. But her sternness and habit of making decisions alone often drove a wedge between us. After I married Charlotte and we had our son, Oliver, I hoped Mum would become closer to our family. But she never came to meet her grandson, always citing work or her health. I didn’t press her, calling once a month and sending photos of Oliver, but her replies were brief: “That’s nice, dear, happy for you.” And now, I find out she’s given her flat to some woman I’ve never even heard of.
It started when my aunt, Jane—Mum’s sister—rang to tell me Margaret had signed over the deed to her home. At first, I thought it was a mistake—maybe Aunt Jane had misunderstood? But she was certain: Mum had handed the keys to a woman named Emily, who supposedly “helped around the house.” I was stunned. Mum lives in a small town, in a modest two-bedroom flat she and Dad bought when they were young. It wasn’t just property—it was part of our family, the place where I grew up. And now it belongs to a stranger?
I called Mum straight away, demanding an explanation. She answered calmly, as if nothing were amiss. “Yes, Edward, I’ve given the flat to Emily,” she said. “She’s a good woman—brings my shopping, helps with cleaning. You’re far away, busy with your own life.” I didn’t know what to say. Yes, Charlotte and I live three hours away, but I’d always offered help—I called, asked if she needed anything, even suggested hiring a carer if she struggled. But Mum always brushed me off: “I’m fine, don’t fuss.” Now she claimed I was “too far,” while Emily was her rock?
I asked who this Emily even was. Turns out, she was a neighbour who’d started popping in a few years ago—helping with errands, taking Mum to her allotment. Mum called her “like a daughter.” I didn’t mind the help, but gifting her the flat? That wasn’t just a box of chocolates! I tried to reason: “Mum, I’m your son. Oliver’s your grandson. You’ve never even seen him, and you’re handing everything to a stranger?” But she just sighed. “Edward, you never visit. Emily’s here. It’s my choice.”
The hurt cut deep. Yes, I couldn’t visit monthly—work, a mortgage, raising Oliver—but I’d always thought family meant something. Oliver was only four; I’d hoped the flat might one day help him—uni, maybe, or his first home. Now it was gone. I asked if she worried Emily was taking advantage. Mum snapped, “I know what I’m doing.”
Later, Charlotte insisted we drive down. Mum hugged Oliver warmly, but tension hung in the air. Over tea, I brought up the flat again. “Mum, explain,” I said gently. “If you need help, I’ll visit more, hire someone. But why give it away?” She looked weary. “Edward, I don’t want to be a burden. Emily cares for me. You have your own life.”
That stung. Did she really think she’d ever be a burden? I told her family sticks together, that Oliver needed his grandma, that I wanted to be there. But she just shook her head. In that moment, I realised—she’d been lonely. Emily had filled the gap. It hurt, but I finally saw her side.
We drove home, and I’m still torn. Legally, there’s nothing I can do—Mum was sound of mind. But I can’t accept that she chose a stranger over us. I’ll call more, visit with Oliver. Maybe, in time, she’ll see we’re her real family. As for Emily… I hope she truly cares.
This whole mess taught me one thing: never take time with loved ones for granted. Life’s too short to let distance—or silence—pull you apart.
