When the grandmother learned her grandson wanted to kick her out, she sold the flat without looking back.
Why take out a loan when you can wait for Grandma to pass away and inherit her home? That was the logic of my husbands cousin, Théo. His wife, Élodie, and their three children were counting on that inheritance. They rejected any credit, preferring to daydream about the day Grandmas apartment would be theirs. In the meantime they cramped into Élodies mothers tiny tworoom flat in Nice, on the French Riviera, a situation that seemed to suffocate them. Théo and Élodie increasingly whispered about sorting things out with Grandma.
But Grandma, Édith, was a true gem. At seventyfive she buzzed with energy, lived life to the full and was in perfect health. Her apartment in the heart of Nice was always open to friends. She handled her smartphone with ease, attended exhibitions, went to theatre performances and even flirted a bit at seniorcitizen dances. She radiated vitality, a daily example of joy. For Théo and Élodie she was merely an irritation; they were tired of waiting.
Their patience finally snapped. They decided that Édith should hand over her flat to Théo and move into a retirement home. They made no secret of their plan, insisting that Grandma would be better off there. Édith, however, was not one to be pushed around. She flatly refused, and that refusal ignited the fire. Théo erupted, screaming that she was selfish and had to think about her grandchildrens future. Élodie fanned the flames, suggesting that Grandma had lived enough.
My husband and I were shocked when we learned the whole story. Édith had always dreamed of visiting Indiato see the Taj Mahal, inhale the spices, wander Delhis streets. We offered her a place with us and suggested she rent out her apartment to fund the trip. She agreed, and soon her spacious threeroom citycenter flat generated a tidy income. When Théo and Élodie heard this, they caused a massive scandal, claiming the flat belonged to them by right and demanding that Grandma move in with them. They even accused my husband, Serge, of manipulating Édith for the inheritance. Théo went as far as demanding the rental money, calling it his legitimate share. We replied that it would never happen, period.
Élodie began visiting us almost dailysometimes alone, sometimes with the children, sometimes bearing odd little gifts. She asked after Grandmas health, but we saw her true motive: she and Théo still hoped Édith would pass away soon and leave everything to them. Their greed and audacity left us astonished.
Meanwhile, Édith had saved enough to travel to India. She returned glowing, with a suitcase full of stories and photos. We suggested she go even further: sell the flat, keep traveling, and later settle with us in comfort. She thought it over and decided. Her large apartment sold for a good price, and with the proceeds she bought a cozy studio on the outskirts of Nice. The remainder funded new adventures.
Édith toured Spain, Austria and Switzerland. While on a boat on Lake Geneva she met a Frenchman named Jean. Their romance was cinematic: at seventyfive she married him! Serge and I flew to France for the ceremony, which was magicalwatching her shine in a white dress surrounded by flowers and smiles. Édith deserved that happiness. She had spent a lifetime working, raising children, helping grandchildren finally she was living for herself.
When Théo learned the flat had been sold, he flew into a black rage. He demanded that Grandma hand over the studio, claiming she had enough. How he intended to house five people there remained a mystery. It no longer mattered to us. We were content that Édith had found her joy. As for Théo and Élodie, their saga reminds us that money can reveal the true faces of those closest to us.
