“It doesn’t matter who tended to Nana!” my mother roared, her voice cracking against the cramped flat in Manchester. “Legally that flat belongs to me!” she hissed, eyes flashing as she faced me.
My own mother, Margaret, threatened me with a court battle. Why? Because the flat once belonging to my grandmother, Susan, never passed to her or to meit was bequeathed to my newborn daughter, Eleanor. Margaret fumed, convinced it was unfair. She believed the property should have gone to her, but Susan had chosen otherwise. Surely that was because Tom and I had spent the last five years living with her, caring for her every need.
Margaret could be summed up as selfish. Her desires always trumped everyone else’s. She’d been married three times, yet raised only two children: me and my younger sister, Claire. Claire and I got along well, but our relationship with mother had long since frayed.
I could barely recall my father. He walked out when I was two, after Margaret divorced him. Until I turned six, I lived with Margaret at Susan’s house. For some reason Susan seemed distant then, perhaps because my mother wept constantly. It wasn’t until adulthood that I understood Susan was a good woman, simply wanting her daughter to stand on her own.
When Margaret remarried, we moved in with my stepdad, Derek. Claire was born during that marriage. Margaret stayed with Derek for seven years before the divorce. This time we didn’t return to Susan; Derek kept us in his own flat temporarily. Three years later Margaret wed again, and we shifted to her new husband’s place.
He, James, wasn’t thrilled to inherit children, but he never harmed us. He ignored us as best he could, and Margaret was consumed by her new husband, jealous and prone to throwing broken china in angry scenes.
Once a month Margaret would start packing, but Derek always stopped her. Claire and I learned to ignore the chaos. I took charge of Claire’s upbringing; mother had no time. Thankfully we had our grandmothers, who helped immeasurably. I later moved into a council residence, while Claire lived with Susan. My fatherwho had reappeared brieflyhelped her, and Margaret only phoned during holidays.
I accepted my mother as she was: absent, unconcerned. Claire, however, could not bear it. She took every slight to heart, especially when Margaret skipped her graduation ceremony.
Years passed. Claire married and moved to Bristol with her husband. Tom and I, though together for years, delayed marriage, sharing a rented flat in Leeds. I visited Susan often; we were close, though I tried not to bother her.
Then Susan fell ill and was admitted to the Royal Infirmary. The doctors warned she needed constant care. I began daily visits, bringing groceries, cooking, cleaning, simply sitting and talking. I made sure she took her medication on time. For six months I tended to her, sometimes with Tom at my side, fixing leaky taps and straightening the messy rooms. One afternoon Susan suggested we move in with her, saving us rent and giving us a place of our own.
We agreed without hesitation. Susan adored Tom, and our bond grew stronger. Six months later I discovered I was pregnant. We decided to keep the baby. Susan beamed, thrilled at the prospect of a greatgrandchild. We celebrated with a modest wedding and a tea at the local café with relatives; Margaret never called to congratulate us.
When Eleanor was two months old, Susan slipped and fractured her hip. Juggling a newborn and a brokenback grandmother was beyond me. I begged Margaret for help; she promised she’d come, but never did. Her excuse was that she felt unwell and would arrive latershe never kept that promise.
Six months after the fall, Susan suffered a stroke and was confined to bed. Caring for her was a nightmare I couldn’t have faced alone. If Tom hadn’t been there, I don’t know how I’d have survived. Slowly Susan regained speech, could sit up, and eat again. She lived another two and a half years, watching Eleanor take her first steps, before she slipped away quietly in her sleep. Tom and I were devastated; we had loved her fiercely.
Margaret only attended the funeral. A month later she turned up, demanding we vacate the flat and hand it over to her. She was certain the property would be hers. What she didn’t know was that Susan had transferred the flat to Eleanor immediately after her birth, leaving nothing for Margaret.
Infuriated, Margaret threatened to sue if I didn’t hand over the keys. “How treacherous!” she snarled. “You’ve cheated the old woman, kept the flat from her, and now you live in it! It doesn’t matter who cared for Nanathis flat is mine!”
She would get nothing. I had already consulted a solicitor and a conveyancer. The flat was Susan’s gift to us, and we would remain there. If our second child turned out to be a girl, we would name her after Susan, honoring the woman who gave us everything.
