Yesterday morning, my mother called me with a nervous tremor in her voice and pleaded,
“Sweetheart, could you go see our neighbour—Auntie Margaret? She’s terribly upset, asked for legal advice. She wouldn’t explain, just said you were clever and could help…”
I’d known Margaret Thompson since I was a girl. We’d lived in the same building for years, and even after I married and moved away, I often visited Mum and exchanged pleasantries with Auntie Margaret on the bench outside. She was ninety now, but until recently, she’d been spry—still pacing the courtyard with a kind smile, bringing Mum freshly baked scones, always deep in gossip with the other ladies. These last few months, though, she’d complained of heart pains and high blood pressure. Her youngest son, Oliver, lived with her and did what he could. Her eldest, Edward, had his own place clear across London and rarely visited.
Years ago, Edward had left for military college, served abroad, married well, earned a flat, a country house, a car. Successful, self-sufficient—but distant. With his mother, it was always strained: cold silence one day, clipped resentment the next. Oliver stayed close. As time passed, he became her only real support. And so, this spring, Margaret decided to sign the flat over to him.
When Edward found out, he didn’t object. “I don’t need it,” he said. “I’ve got everything. Let Oliver have something for once.”
It should’ve been fair. But the peace didn’t last.
When I went to see Margaret that evening, her face told me she’d been crying. She sat down, wiped her eyes, and in a voice thin with fear, asked,
“Love… where can I get one of those… what d’you call it… a DNA test?”
I was stunned. “Auntie Margaret, why on earth would you need that?”
Then she told me. A few days ago, Edward had stormed in. Glaring, he’d said, “I’m not his son. Our blood types don’t match. It all makes sense now. That’s why you gave the flat to Oliver—not me. I’m nothing to you. He’s your real one.”
Then he’d slammed the door. No chance to speak. Now he wouldn’t answer her calls.
Margaret whispered, “My husband had O-positive, I remember… but mine—I don’t. It was in my old passport, but I renewed it years ago. And Edward’s? I’ve no idea… back when he was born, I was half-dead myself, no one to ask…”
Someone had suggested a DNA test. But I explained it wasn’t simple—her husband had been gone twenty years. For proof, she’d need living samples—blood, hair, saliva—or a court-ordered exhumation. And even if approved, it’d cost thousands.
Margaret cried harder. “So I can’t even prove to my own son that he’s his father’s child?”
Something in me snapped. My voice shook, my own eyes burning.
“Auntie Margaret, you don’t owe him proof! He never even said his blood type. He’s just hurt. Made up an excuse to punish you. A grown man acting like a spiteful child! You did right—gave the flat to the son who stayed. He just found a way to cut you deeper.”
I steadied myself. “If it helps, go with Oliver to the clinic, get tested. Maybe the hospital where you gave birth still has records. Or your husband’s documents might be archived. But even if not—Edward should come to you, like a decent man, and apologise. Not fling accusations sharper than any knife.”
She nodded, calmer now. “You’re right… but he still won’t answer…”
I asked for Edward’s number. Outside, away from the building, I called. He picked up.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m your mother’s neighbour.”
“What do you want?”
“We need to talk about Margaret.”
“I’m listening.”
“She’s devastated—”
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone. My chest ached with one terrible truth: how easily the deepest bonds shatter when love is replaced by spite. And how cruel it is, for a son to accuse his mother of a betrayal she never committed.
Margaret hadn’t betrayed him. She’d just given her only home to the son who stayed. The eldest had left on his own. Now he was punishing her—coldly, silently, ruthlessly.
And yet, to her, he’d always been her boy. Hers. Her only one.
Until yesterday.
