An elderly woman gave her flat to her younger son—and the eldest decided to take revenge by accusing her of the unthinkable.
Yesterday morning, Mum called me, her voice tight with worry:
“Love, could you pop round to see our neighbour, Auntie Margaret? She’s ever so upset—asked for some legal advice. Wouldn’t say more, just that you’re clever and could help…”
I’d known Margaret Stevens since I was little. We’d lived in the same building for years, and even after I moved away, I’d still visit Mum and say hello to Auntie Marg on the bench outside. She’s ninety now, but until recently, she’d bustle about the estate, baking Mum pies and nattering with the neighbours. Lately, though, she’d been complaining of heart trouble and high blood pressure. Her youngest, Oliver, lived with her and helped out. Her eldest, Henry, lived across town and barely visited anymore.
Henry had left years ago for military academy, built a life—nice house, car, career. Comfortable, but distant. With his mum, it was always tension: cold shoulders, grudges, barking orders. Oliver stayed. Over time, he became her only proper support. So this spring, Margaret decided to sign the flat over to him.
When Henry found out, he didn’t object. Just said,
“I don’t need it. Let Oliver have something.”
Seemed fair. But the peace didn’t last.
When I dropped by that evening, Margaret’s face was streaked with tears. She dabbed her eyes, voice shaking:
“Love… where can you get one of those… what do they call it… DNA tests?”
I was stunned.
“Auntie Marg, why on earth—?”
Then she told me. Days earlier, Henry had turned up on her doorstep, grim-faced, and said:
“I’m not Dad’s son. Our blood types don’t match. Explains why you gave the flat to Oliver and not me. I was never really yours. He was.”
Then he slammed the door and left. Didn’t let her speak. Now he wouldn’t answer her calls.
Margaret whispered,
“My husband’s blood type was positive, I remember… but mine? My old passport had it, but I renewed years ago. And Henry’s… I’ve no idea. When he was born, I was in no state to ask—who even remembers?”
Someone had suggested a DNA test. I explained it wasn’t simple: her husband had passed decades ago. They’d need living samples—blood, hair—or an exhumation. That meant court approval, no guarantee, and a small fortune in costs.
She cried harder.
“So I can’t even prove he’s his father’s son?”
I lost it then. My voice trembled.
“Auntie Marg, you don’t owe him proof! He won’t even say his blood type. This isn’t about facts—he’s hurt and lashing out. Grown man acting like a spoiled child. You did right by the son who stayed. He’s just twisting the knife because he can.”
I took a breath.
“If you like, go with Oliver to the clinic, get tested. Maybe the hospital where you gave birth has old records. Your husband’s papers might be archived too. But even if not—Henry should come back on his knees and apologise. Not hurl accusations that cut deeper than any blade.”
She nodded, calmer now.
“You’re right… but he still won’t pick up…”
I asked for Henry’s number. Outside, I called. He answered.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m your mum’s neighbour.”
“What do you want?”
“We need to talk about Margaret—”
“I’m listening.”
“She’s heartbroken—”
Then he hung up.
I stood there, phone in hand, chest tight. It hit me then—how easily the closest bonds shatter when love curdles into spite. And how cruel it is, watching a son punish his mother for a crime she never committed.
Margaret didn’t betray anyone. She gave her home to the child who stayed. The eldest walked away first. Now he’s punishing her—coldly, silently. And all the while, she’s loved him. Unquestioningly. Until yesterday.
