Grandma Margaret had spent most of her life in a quiet neighbourhood on the outskirts of Reading. After her husband passed away, she found herself alone in a two-bedroom flat she had inherited from her mother. Her children were always busy—constantly away on trips or working late—so her younger granddaughter, Emily, often stayed with her.
The eldest grandson, Oliver, had always been the family favourite. He was given the best toys, enrolled in after-school clubs, and later sent to a prestigious university. Emily, though, was the shadow—never demanding attention, never complaining, growing up too soon. She studied, worked hard, rented a small flat, and never asked for anything. The only true warmth in her life came from Grandma Marg.
Emily visited almost every week—after work, on weekends, no matter the weather. Sometimes she brought groceries, other times medicine, or just came round for tea and a chat. Then, one ordinary evening, Grandma Marg greeted her with a stony silence.
“Why do you come here so often, Emily?” she asked, eyes fixed on the telly. “Is it because you want my flat after I’m gone?”
Emily, who had been mopping the hallway floor, froze.
“Gran, what’s gotten into you? What flat? I promised you soup—fancy some steamed dumplings instead?”
Grandma Marg snorted but didn’t reply. Emily smiled, swallowing the hurt as usual, and headed to the kitchen. She put the kettle on, took out her grandmother’s favourite chocolate spread, and started cooking.
Minutes later, Grandma Marg walked in and said something that made Emily’s stomach drop.
“I’ve already signed the flat over to Oliver. So you’re wasting your time. You’ll get nothing.”
Emily straightened, wiped her hands, and answered calmly.
“Good. I don’t come here for a flat. You raised me when I was little—now it’s my turn to look after you. A flat’s just bricks and mortar.”
Grandma Marg stayed silent. But her expression had changed—there was doubt in her eyes, almost worry. They drank tea, chatted about her favourite show, and didn’t mention the flat again that night.
A few days later, Emily got a call from Oliver. He shouted down the line, accusing her of “stealing” Grandma’s affection and tricking her into transferring the flat.
“You’re just like the rest of them!” he yelled. “I want nothing to do with you!”
Their mother called next, singing the same tune. “How could you do this? That’s our family home!” Confused, Emily hung up and went straight to her grandmother.
“Gran, what’s going on?” she asked gently. “Oliver says you’ve signed the flat over to me. I don’t understand. I know a solicitor if you need help—but tell me honestly, have you done something?”
Grandma Marg sat down slowly, sighed, and confessed. The neighbours had been gossiping about families who only cared for the elderly for inheritance. So she decided to test her grandchildren—to see who truly cared. She told Emily the flat was Oliver’s, and Oliver it was Emily’s.
“Now I know who’s who,” she said sadly. “You, my dear, stayed kind and loyal. But Oliver… well, you heard how he reacted.”
Emily shook her head. She wasn’t angry—just certain now where love ended and greed began.
Grandma Marg offered to let her move in, since the flat was legally hers now. But Emily refused.
“You like your peace, Gran. I’ve got my routines—work, friends, life. Let’s leave things as they are. I’ll still visit, same as before. The flat doesn’t matter.”
Nothing changed after that. Emily still brings groceries, watches telly with her, and gives her warmth without condition. And Grandma Marg knows: her granddaughter is the only one who truly loves her—not for the walls around her, but for the heart within.
