When Grandma got sick, she was promptly dumped on her grandson. But once they found out about the will, they were tearing their hair out in regret.
“Good morning, darling,” groaned Lottie as she heard her mother-in-law Margaret’s voice on the phone. If Margaret was calling, it could only mean one thing—this “good morning” was about to be thoroughly ruined.
Lottie had never been Margaret’s biggest fan, and the feeling was mutual. It wasn’t that Lottie was a bad person—no, the real crime was marrying Margaret’s least favourite son, Michael, which automatically landed her on the unwelcome list.
“I’ve got brilliant news for you,” Margaret said with a smirk. “My mother-in-law, Eleanor, is moving in with you. Consider it repayment for that flat you didn’t earn.”
Lottie exhaled in relief—this wasn’t the disaster she’d braced for. Margaret usually cooked up far worse schemes. At first, Lottie had been baffled by the hostility, until Michael explained the family dynamics.
Michael was the eldest of Margaret’s three children, born out of wedlock while she was still “on the shelf,” as they say. She’d been embarrassed by his existence, though that didn’t stop the pretty young thing from snagging a well-off widower, Edward Hartley, who raised Michael as his own. Together, they had two more children—Simon and Emily.
Edward was sharp, hardworking—made his fortune in the ’80s with a small business, survived the ’90s recession, and by the 2000s, he was thriving. Fair to all three kids, he never played favourites—equal toys, equal punishments, equal love.
Margaret, however, had a clear hierarchy. Between pinches and scoldings, she’d hiss at Michael, “Why did I even have you? Dark-haired, just like your no-good father—a crow among my little doves.” (Simon and Emily, of course, were both fair.)
Poor Michael never understood his crime. He hadn’t asked to be born, and—irony of ironies—he’d been the reason Edward even noticed Margaret. One day, Edward had spotted the little boy crying in the park after yet another maternal tongue-lashing and stopped to comfort him. That’s how he met Margaret.
As a husband and father, Edward was wonderful—generous, attentive, never treating Michael as an outsider. But Simon and Emily, egged on by Margaret, never let him forget his place. “You’re nothing to us,” they’d sneer during childhood squabbles. “Our dad just tolerates you.”
“Edward’s the only family I’ve ever really had,” Michael confessed to Lottie early in their marriage.
So Lottie learned to keep her distance from Margaret—no point in spoiling a perfectly good day. She still remembered their first meeting, the way Margaret had wrinkled her nose and sighed, “Oh Lord, *this* is who he brings home? Well, live as you like—just don’t darken my doorstep.”
And so they did. Married, scraping by in rented flats, never asking for help. Edward was the only one who visited, joking about wanting grandkids, missing the sound of little feet.
Then, a year after the wedding, he passed. The funeral, the wake—Michael grieved like he’d lost his own father. At the will reading, the whole family gathered. Simon and Emily glared when Michael arrived.
“What’s *he* doing here?” they muttered.
But Michael ignored them. He’d been invited—that was enough. Then the solicitor read Edward’s will: the family estate went to Margaret, while each child—*including* Michael—got a spacious two-bedroom flat.
Cue the meltdown.
“Who even *is* he?” Emily shrieked, jabbing a finger at Michael. “He’s not even blood! Why does some stray get property?” She raged like a witch at a coven, hurling insults, while Simon hissed at the solicitor, “How much did he *pay* Dad? Can we contest this?”
The solicitor shut it down. “The properties were gifted outright. But in six months, we’ll read the will concerning Edward’s business—*that* you can contest.”
Thrilled with their new flat, Michael and Lottie started planning for the family Edward had wanted. The siblings’ venom didn’t faze Michael—after thirty years, he was used to it. The real puzzle was Margaret’s silence.
And then—today’s cherry on top—Margaret demanded they take in Edward’s mother, Eleanor.
Michael called her back immediately.
“Get that old woman out of my house *now*,” Margaret screeched. “I’ve put up with her my whole life—you think I’m changing her nappies?”
His heart ached for Grandma Eleanor. She’d poured love into their family, babysat the grandkids, and now, after a stroke left her wheelchair-bound, they were tossing her aside like last year’s fashion.
Without a word, Michael fetched her. Lottie cleared space in their flat—wheelchairs need room.
And so Eleanor moved in. Caring for her wasn’t a burden—she was sharp, funny, never wallowed. Sure, it stung that her other grandkids ignored her, but she refused to dwell on it.
“Margaret spoiled them rotten,” she sighed one evening. “But Edward always adored you, Michael. To me, you’re the only family I’ve got.”
Honestly, “caring” for her was a joke—she’d whip around in her wheelchair, tidying the flat *and* cooking dinner before they got home.
Simon and Emily? Radio silence.
Then, four months later—the business will reading.
The moment Michael wheeled Eleanor into the solicitor’s office, the bickering stopped dead. Three pairs of furious eyes locked onto the little old lady.
“What’s *she* doing here?” their stares screamed.
The solicitor cleared his throat. “All business assets—property, holdings, funds—are bequeathed to Eleanor Hartley.”
Silence.
Emily recovered first. Eyes suddenly warm, she shouldered past Michael. “You’ve been slumming it long enough—*I’ll* take Grandma home.”
Simon lunged. “Like hell! She’s coming with *me*!”
They squabbled like seagulls over chips until Eleanor raised a hand.
“Quiet! Who said I *want* to leave Michael?” She winked. “I’m staying put.”
Simon and Emily stormed out, Margaret hissing “*Weasel*” on her way.
Eleanor grinned. “Right, Mikey—home we go. This calls for a celebration!”
And so she stayed, soon transferring most of Edward’s assets to Michael. Simon and Emily got modest sums—enough to be comfortable, but they blew it. Simon got tangled in shady dealings, lost his share to debts, and crawled back to Margaret. Emily married a gold-digger, had a daughter, then got dumped. Margaret ended up raising the girl while Emily chased new suitors.
Eleanor passed just before Lottie gave birth. They named the baby Ellie.
Months later, while sorting Eleanor’s things, Lottie found a note tucked in her favourite book:
*Mum, if anything happens, go to my Michael. He’s not ours by blood, but he’s the best of them. Sorry I couldn’t raise Emily and Simon the same.*
Lottie wiped away a tear and smiled. Edward had been right—her husband *was* a good man.
Lucky her.
