Years ago, in a quiet London neighbourhood, an elderly woman gave her flat to her younger son—and the eldest sought revenge, accusing her of the unthinkable.
Yesterday morning, my mother rang me, her voice tight with worry. “Darling, could you pop round to see Aunt Margaret next door? She’s terribly upset and asked for legal advice. She wouldn’t say more, only that you’re clever and might help…”
I’d known Margaret Turner since childhood. We’d lived in the same building for years, and even after I married and moved away, I often visited my mother and exchanged pleasantries with Aunt Margaret on the garden bench. At ninety, she had still been spry not long ago—strolling the courtyard, baking scones for my mother, gossiping with the neighbours. Lately, though, she’d complained of heart troubles and high blood pressure. Her younger son, James, lived with her and did what he could. Her eldest, Edward, lived across town and visited less and less.
Edward had left years ago for military school, served abroad, married well, and built a comfortable life—house in Surrey, a car, all the trappings. Successful, yes, but distant. With his mother, he was either cold, resentful, or dictatorial. James, though, stayed close. As years passed, he became her sole support. So this spring, Margaret decided to sign the flat over to him.
When Edward found out, he didn’t argue. “I don’t need it,” he’d said. “Let James have something.” It seemed settled fairly. But the peace didn’t last.
When I called on Margaret that evening, her face was streaked with tears. She dabbed her eyes and asked in a shaky voice, “Dear… where might one get a… a DNA test done?”
I was stunned. “Aunt Margaret, why on earth would you need that?”
Then she told me. Days before, Edward had stormed in, glowering. “I’m not Father’s son,” he’d snapped. “Our blood types don’t match. It all makes sense now. That’s why you gave the flat to James, not me. I’m nothing to you. He’s your real son.”
With that, he’d slammed the door, ignoring her protests. Now he wouldn’t answer her calls.
Margaret whispered, “My husband had a positive blood type, I remember… but mine? My old passport had it, but I renewed it years ago. And Edward’s—I’ve no idea. When he was born, I was in no state to ask…”
Someone had suggested a DNA test, but I explained the difficulty: her husband had died decades ago. Without his living tissue—blood, hair—or exhumation (a costly court battle with no guarantee of approval), proof was impossible.
She wept again. “So I can’t prove to my son he’s his father’s child?”
I nearly cried myself then. “Aunt Margaret, you owe him no proof! He never even named his blood type. This is just spite. A way to punish you. He’s a grown man acting like a spoiled boy. You did right—giving the flat to the one who stayed. He’s only twisting the knife.”
I took a breath. “If you like, go with James to the clinic, have your blood typed. Maybe the hospital where Edward was born keeps records. Your husband’s papers might be archived. But even if not—Edward ought to come begging your pardon, not hurling accusations sharper than any blade.”
She nodded, calmer. “You’re right… but he still won’t answer.”
I asked for Edward’s number. Outside, I called. He answered. “Hello,” I said. “I’m your mother’s neighbour.”
“What do you want?”
“To speak about Margaret—”
“She’s upset, I imagine,” he cut in. Then the line went dead.
I stood there, staring at my phone. One thought pounded in my chest: how easily the holiest bonds shatter when love turns to resentment. How cruel it is when a son accuses his mother of a sin she never committed.
Margaret hadn’t betrayed him. She’d simply given her home to the son who remained. The eldest had left of his own will. Now he took revenge—cold, silent, brutal.
Yet to her, he’d always been her son. Hers. Entirely.
Until yesterday.
