So, yesterday morning, Mum phoned me first thing, sounding really worried, and said, “Love, could you pop round to see Auntie Margaret next door? She’s ever so upset and asked for some legal advice. Didn’t explain much, just said you’re clever and would know what to do…”
I’ve known Margaret since I was little. We lived in the same block of flats for years, and even after I got married and moved away, I’d still visit Mum and always say hello to Auntie Margaret on the bench outside. She’s ninety now, but until recently, she was still spry—always pottering about, smiling, bringing Mum cakes, and nattering with the neighbours. Lately, though, she’d been complaining about her heart and her blood pressure. Her youngest, Daniel, lived with her and helped out. But the eldest, Simon, lived clear across town and barely visited.
Simon had left years ago for military school, then served, got married, sorted himself a nice flat, a cottage, a car. Comfortable, independent—but distant. With his mum, things were always strained—either sulking, giving orders, or just ignoring her. Daniel stayed close. Over the years, he became her only proper support. So this spring, Margaret decided to sign the flat over to him.
When Simon found out, he didn’t even argue. Just said, “Don’t need it. Got my own life. Let Daniel have something.” Seemed fair, right? But the peace didn’t last.
When I went round last night, it was obvious Auntie Margaret had been crying. She sat down, wiped her eyes, and in this shaky voice asked, “Love… where do you go to get one of those… what’s it called… DNA tests?”
I was gobsmacked. “Auntie Margaret, why on earth would you need that?”
And then she told me. A few days ago, Simon turned up out of the blue. Walked in, face like thunder, and said, “I’m not Dad’s son. Our blood types don’t match. It all makes sense now. That’s why you gave the flat to Daniel and not me. I’m nothing to you. But he’s your *real* son.”
Then he slammed the door and left. Didn’t let her say a word. Now he won’t answer her calls.
Auntie Margaret whispered, “My husband had a positive blood type, I *know* that… but mine? I don’t remember. It was in my old passport, but I replaced it years ago. And Simon’s? No idea… Back when he was born, you didn’t think to ask…”
Someone had suggested a DNA test. But I explained it wasn’t that simple—her husband passed over twenty years ago. For a test, you’d need living samples—blood, hair, saliva—or an exhumation. And that’d need a court order, no guarantee they’d allow it. Plus, it’d cost an absolute fortune.
She started crying again. “So I can’t prove to him he’s his father’s son?”
That’s when I lost it. My voice shook, I was near tears myself. “Auntie Margaret! You don’t owe him *proof*! He didn’t even say his own blood type. He’s just hurt. Made up an excuse to punish you. Grown man acting like a stroppy child. You did right—gave the flat to the one who *stayed*. He just wanted to twist the knife.”
I took a breath. “If you want, go with Daniel to the GP, get your blood typed. Maybe the hospital where Simon was born still has records. Or your husband’s things—could be in archives. But even if not, *Simon* should come back and apologise like a decent person. Not throw accusations that cut deeper than any knife.”
She nodded, calmed a little. “You’re right… but he still won’t pick up…”
I asked for Simon’s number. Stepped outside, rang him. He answered.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m your mum’s neighbour.”
“What do you want?”
“Just wanted to talk about Margaret—”
“I’m listening.”
“She’s really—”
Then he hung up. Just like that.
I stood there staring at my phone. All I could think was how easily the closest bonds shatter when love turns to spite. And how awful it is when your own child accuses you of something you’d never do.
Margaret didn’t betray anyone. She just gave her home to the one who stayed. The eldest walked away himself—and now he’s punishing her. Cold, silent, cruel. But to her? He was always her son. Hers. Her only. Until yesterday.
