Gran taught him a lesson he won’t soon forget
Our Gran had always been the backbone of the family. With her endless generosity, she’d funded university fees, helped with mortgage deposits, and even treated us to the odd seaside holiday in Brighton. But as time passed, her once-plump savings grew thin. By the time she moved in with my brother, the woman who’d been our rock was now leaning on us for support.
At first, it worked well enough. Gran pitched in with chores, whipped up Sunday roasts, and adored spoiling the grandkids. But when the cheques stopped coming, my brother’s patience wore thinner than a Tesco-brand teabag. He started muttering about bills and huffing over “extra mouths to feed.”
Then came the call. Gran’s voice quivered down the line: “Your brother’s told me to pack my bags. Says I’ve run out of savings and I’m nothing but a bother.”
Fuming, I raced over. My brother stood arms crossed on his Leicester doorstep, looking about as cheerful as a rainy Bank Holiday. “She’s skint,” he said bluntly. “I’ve got my own lot to look after.”
“Skint?” I shot back. “She paid your uni fees, chucked in for this house, and raised us on jam roly-poly and kindness. Is this your thank-you?”
“Her choice,” he shrugged. “Times are tough.”
I bundled Gran into my car that night, swearing she’d never feel unwelcome again. Back at mine, she dabbed her eyes with a hankie. “Never thought he’d turn me out like last week’s leftovers,” she sighed.
But beneath the hurt, I spotted a glint—like a squirrel eyeing a forgotten acorn.
Next morning, Gran vanished into her room, emerging with a stack of yellowed papers and a grin that could’ve outshone the Blackpool illuminations. “Reckon it’s time your brother got a taste of his own medicine,” she declared.
Turns out, Gran still owned a prime patch of land in the Cotswolds—kept quiet for a rainy day. Within weeks, she’d sold it for a tidy sum. Instead of splitting it, she donated a hefty chunk to a charity helping lonely pensioners. The rest? Spent on a cruise and a proper spa weekend.
But the pièce de résistance? The charity threw a do in her honour, complete with cucumber sandwiches and a guest list including my brother’s golf mates. When they praised Gran’s “unstoppable spirit” and her “heart as big as the Midlands,” his face went whiter than Stilton.
“Money comes and goes,” Gran said, locking eyes with him, “but family’s forever. Pity some need reminding.”
The room burst into applause. My brother mumbled an apology afterward, to which Gran replied sweetly, “Forgiven—but not forgotten, pet.”
From then on, Gran lived her best life, surrounded by those who truly valued her. And my brother? Let’s just say he learned the hard way that karma’s a steeper price than any bill.
*Inspired by real-life whims and wisdom, but names and nutty relatives are purely fictional. Any likeness to your own Gran’s secret property empire is, well, probably not a coincidence.*
