Does It Really Matter Who Took Care of Grandmother? The Flat Rightfully Belongs to Me! – A Family Dispute Between My Mother and Me.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 5 minViews 3

Who looks after Nana doesn’t matterlegally that flat is mine! my mother shouted at me.

Now my own mother is threatening to take me to court. Why? Because the flat that belonged to my grandmother never belonged to her or to me; it was hers to give to my daughter. My mother thinks thats outrageous. She believes the flat should have passed to her, but Nana decided otherwiseprobably because Robert and I lived with her for the past five years and cared for her.

My mother can safely be called selfish. Her own wishes have always trumped anyone elses. Shes been married three times but has only two children: me and my younger sister, Lucy. Lucy and I get on well, but our relationship with Mum has long since frayed.

I cant even recall my father. He divorced Mum when I was two. I lived with Mum and Nana until I was six. For some reason I found Nanas house uncomfortable I think it was because Mum was always crying. It wasnt until I grew up that I realised Nana was a wonderful woman; she just wanted her daughter to be independent.

Mum remarried, and we moved in with my stepfather. That marriage produced Lucy. Mum lived with him for seven years before she left him. This time we didnt go back to Nanas. My stepfather kept a job and let us stay in his flat temporarily. Three years later Mum married again and we moved into her new husbands house.

He wasnt thrilled to discover he had stepchildren, but he never hurt us. He simply ignored us, and Mum was equally preoccupied with her new husband, constantly jealous and throwing tantrums that left dishes shattered.

Once a month Mum would start packing, but my stepfather always stopped her. Lucy and I got used to it and stopped paying attention. I took on Lucys upbringing because Mum had no time. We were lucky to have great grandmothers who helped us a lot. Eventually I went into a residential home and Lucy stayed with Nana. My fathers side of the family helped, and Mum only called during the holidays.

I accepted Mum for who she wasabsent and unconcernedbecause that was all Id ever known. Lucy, however, never accepted it. She took every slight to heart, especially when Mum didnt turn up for her graduation ceremony.

We grew up. Lucy married and moved to Bristol with her husband. Robert and I werent in any rush to tie the knot, even though wed been together for years. We rented a flat in Manchester and I visited Nana often. We were close, but I tried not to bother her.

Then Nana fell ill and was admitted to the hospital. The doctors said she needed good care, so I started visiting daily, bringing groceries, cooking, cleaning, or simply keeping her company. I made sure she took her medication on time. I kept this up for six months, sometimes with Roberts helphed fix things around the house and tidy up.

One day Nana suggested we move in with her so we could save on rent and not waste money on a separate flat. We didnt think twice; we loved her and she liked Robert. We moved in, and six months later I discovered I was pregnant. We decided to keep the baby, and Nana was over the moon at the prospect of a greatgrandchild. We got married in a little tearroom with family, and Mum didnt even call to say congratulations.

When my daughter, Emily, was two months old, Nana slipped and broke her leg. Juggling a newborn and caring for Nana was a nightmare. I begged Mum for help; she promised shed come but never did. She kept saying she wasnt feeling well and would arrive later, but that promise was never kept.

Six months after the fall, Nana suffered a stroke and became confined to bed. Looking after her was almost impossible. If Robert hadnt been there, I dont know how I would have survived. Slowly she began to recovershe could speak again, sit up, eat. She lived another two and a half years, watching Emily take her first steps. Nana passed away quietly in her sleep. Her death hit Robert and me hard; we loved her dearly and miss her every day.

Mum only turned up for the funeral. A month later she showed up, demanding the flat for herself, certain she would get it. What she didnt know was that Nana had bequeathed the flat to me right after Emily was born, so Mum got nothing.

That infuriated her. She demanded I hand over the flat or shed sue. How sly of you! You cheated the old woman by keeping the flat from her, and now you live in it yourself! It doesnt matter who cared for Nanathis flat should be mine!

She wont get the flat. Ive already spoken to a solicitor and a notary. Well stay in the flat Nana gave us, and if our second child turns out to be a girl, well name her after Nana.

A Parent’s Heart: A Story Thank you so much for your support, your likes, interest, comments on my stories, subscriptions, and a HUGE thank you from me and my five furry cats for your generous donations. Please share your favourite stories on social media—it means a lot to the author too! “Why the gloomy face this morning? Not even a smile—come on, let’s have breakfast,” Her husband wandered sleepily into the kitchen—it was finally a weekend. Bacon and eggs sizzled on the stove, while his wife poured the tea. She slapped most of the eggs onto his plate, added a slice of bread, and said, “Eat up, use your fork!” “Did I do something wrong, Natasha?” Arkady asked gently. “You did. We both did. We raised our children all wrong,” replied Natalie, sitting down beside him and picking at her food without much appetite. “Our daughter and son have grown up. We sacrificed for them, did without while we raised them—those were hard times. We supported them… so who supports us now, at least with kind words? All they have are problems—bored with life or complaining about money. Both Sasha and Dima, the same old grumbling.” “What makes you say that?” Arkady had already finished his eggs and was happily spreading butter and jam on a fresh slice. “It’s just easier for you—they pour it all out to me, their mother. Yesterday, Dima wanted to take his family bowling, asked for a loan until payday, but I was annoyed and said no. He was offended, and before that, Sasha called about her music career not working out—she was so down. It’s getting out of hand. Sure, she likes singing, but it’s not paying the bills! Time she faced facts and found a proper job; not everyone can make it as a singer. Back when they were little, those two were so close—now it seems they barely talk at all.” She pushed her cold eggs away and sipped her tea. “Don’t get so worked up. Everything will be okay—we were young once, remember?” Arkady tried to comfort her, but she only got more animated. “That’s easy for you to say—think about it. We lived within our means and were grateful. When Dima was born, we were over the moon. A friend gave me a pram, my sister handed down baby clothes—second-hand, but as good as new, kids grow fast! And we were happy. And when we finally got that old Ford Escort, we felt rich as kings! Parked it right out front and felt on top of the world! But our two, if they haven’t been on a trip abroad, think life’s a bust. Did we ever teach them that?” “These days, Natasha, there are more temptations and they’re young. Give it time—they’ll understand.” “But what if it’s too late? They’ll waste their lives chasing riches and life just flies by. I look in the mirror and can’t believe it—am I really a grandmother now? And you, a grandfather…” At that moment, the phone rang—her son Dima was calling. “Here we go again,” Natalie grabbed the phone, and as she listened her eyes went wide and she jumped to her feet. “Arkady, get dressed, quick! Dima’s in hospital—his neighbour just called from the ward.” “What happened?” Arkady leapt up and started throwing on his clothes. “I’m not sure, something with an angle grinder—blade snapped and cut his hand. They’re trying to save his wrist, I just hope they succeed! Let’s go.” The not-so-old but not-so-young parents threw on their coats, worry etched across their faces, and rushed out to see their son. As they hurried, Sasha rang—“Mum, I’ll come round at lunchtime, okay?” “Of course, darling. We’ll probably be back by then,” panted Natalie, barely waiting for a reply before she dashed after Arkady. At the hospital, they were quickly reassured—Dima’s hand had been saved, but they weren’t allowed to see him yet. “I’m not leaving this spot until I see him,” Natalie sat down in the lobby, Arkady by her side. Suddenly Sasha burst into the hospital, hugging them both. “Mum, why are you two so upset? Everything’s okay! Dima was just doing a cash job fixing someone’s car, something wouldn’t come off, he was cutting bolts and slipped. But he’s fine, stitches in, fingers moving—honestly, Mum, you look dreadful. It’s not as bad as it sounds.” “How do you know?” Natalie asked in disbelief. “Dima and I always text, and I chat with Lenny, his wife, too. We help each other, you know?” “We thought you barely spoke anymore,” Arkady explained. “Dad, you and Mum are so strong, so capable—you can handle anything. We try not to worry you. And, if you must know, you both still look young—so we try to let you live your own lives a bit now!” “Really now, I thought you didn’t care anymore!” Natalie managed a smile. “No way, Mum! Your generation—tough as nails. We try to follow your example, but it’s not always easy. But we really do try, honestly.” At that, their worried looks eased a little. “Mum, Dad—I wanted to tell you, I’ve got a new job. And people now invite me to sing at events—nurseries, care homes; yesterday I sang for a group of pensioners. They clapped so hard! One old lady cried—her daughter’s a well-known singer but always away on tour, so she’s dropped her off there… it’s awful.” Sasha suddenly hugged them tight—“We really love you both, never doubt it…” A nurse appeared, allowing them a short visit to Dima. Natalie almost cried, but Dima was calm. “Mum, relax. The worst is over. Dad, you always told that story about the wasp nest in the garage—got stung so badly you nearly died in hospital. Stuff happens. Once I’m out, you must all come celebrate New Year’s with us. We don’t see enough of each other, do we? And Sasha wants to introduce you to her boyfriend too, but hasn’t had a chance yet…” Natalie and Arkady walked home, deciding to take their time. Not so old, yet not so young, these parents with ever-worried hearts. Oh, the parent’s heart—it’s always aching for its children. Always comparing, always wishing they’d be better, wiser, more obedient. But they have their own paths to walk—no matter what. And ours—they’re good kids, after all. Our very own.

Staying Connected Every morning, Mrs Margaret Hope followed the same routine: kettle on the hob, two spoonfuls of tea into her old bulbous teapot—the very one she’d treasured since her children were small and the world felt full of endless tomorrows. While the water warmed, she’d switch on the kitchen radio and listen to the news with half an ear; the voices of the presenters felt more familiar than most faces these days. Above the table, a clock with golden hands ticked on diligently. But the old landline phone below it grew quieter each month. Once, it would crackle every evening as friends called to discuss the soaps or blood pressure—now, those friends were more often unwell, drifting away to live with family in far-off towns, or quietly leaving forever. The phone, heavy and reassuring in her palm, stood in the corner. Sometimes, Margaret stroked it in passing, as if checking whether this way of reaching out to the world still lived. Her children’s calls came through mobiles now—well, she assumed they did, for whenever they visited, their phones never left their hands. Her son would pause mid-conversation, eyes fixed on the screen, mutter, ‘One moment,’ and begin tapping away. Her granddaughter, a thin girl with a long ponytail, barely let go of her own device. All their lives, it seemed, were there. All Margaret had was an old push-button mobile, bought after her first spell in hospital when, as her son said, ‘We need to know you’re always reachable.’ It sat in its fraying case on the hall shelf, sometimes forgotten and out of charge, sometimes buried under receipts and handkerchiefs at the bottom of her bag. It rang rarely, and when it did, she’d often fumble and miss the call—chiding herself for being too slow. She turned seventy-five that day. The number felt alien, as if it belonged to someone else. Inside, she still felt sixty-five. Perhaps sixty. But ID cards don’t lie. Her morning followed its usual patterns: tea, radio, the gentle stretches her GP had shown her, then a simple salad and the cottage pie she’d baked the night before. The children had promised to come by two. She still found it odd that birthdays were now arranged not over the phone, but in some ‘family chat.’ Her son said, ‘Tanya and I organise everything in our group chat. I’ll show you one day.’ But he never did. To Margaret, the word ‘chat’ sounded like another world, one where people lived inside little windows and spoke in typed letters. At two they all arrived. First her grandson Jamie tumbled into the hallway with his rucksack and headphones, then her granddaughter Lucy slipped in quietly, followed by her son and his wife, arms heavy with shopping bags. Suddenly, the flat was full of bustle and perfume, bakery scents and that fresh, restless tang she could never quite place. ‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ her son said, hugging her briskly, almost as if eager to move on. The gifts piled onto the table, the flowers arranged in a vase. Lucy instantly asked for the WiFi password. Her son, frowning, dug the paper from his wallet and dictated a string of letters and numbers that made Margaret’s mind buzz. ‘Gran, why aren’t you ever on the group chat?’ Jamie asked, heading for the kitchen. ‘That’s where everything happens.’ She waved a hand. ‘Oh, I don’t need all that. This old phone is plenty for me.’ Her daughter-in-law broke in awkwardly, ‘Actually, that’s why… well, we’ve bought you something.’ She exchanged a glance with her husband. He handed Margaret a smooth white box. She felt a pang of worry—she guessed what was inside. ‘A smartphone,’ he announced, as if giving a diagnosis. ‘Not top of the range, but a decent one. Camera, internet—the lot.’ ‘What on earth for?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘So we can have video calls, Mum,’ her daughter-in-law replied, her tone bright and automatic. ‘We put family news and photos in the chat, and everything’s online now—doctors, bills, appointments. You complained about NHS queues, remember?’ ‘I’ll manage the old way—’ she started, but saw her son sigh, carefully masking his impatience. ‘It’ll put our minds at rest. If you need us, you can reach us straight away. No more hunting for the green button.’ He smiled hopefully, but she felt the sting all the same. The green button, as if she was useless now. ‘All right,’ she relented, eyes on the box. ‘If it means that much to you.’ They opened it together, like sharing out presents at a children’s party. Only now the children were grown, and she sat in their midst feeling less a guest of honour than a student on her first day. Out came the sleek black rectangle—cold, slippery, buttonless. ‘Everything’s touch-screen,’ Jamie explained. ‘You just swipe—like this.’ His finger flicked across the glass. The screen lit up with bright icons. Margaret startled, half-expecting the thing to demand some secret code, a password, or start barking out commands she’d never understand. ‘Don’t worry,’ Lucy said gently. ‘We’ll set it all up. Just… don’t press anything by yourself yet, OK?’ Oddly, that hurt the most—like being told not to touch Grandma’s best vase. After lunch, the whole family sat with her in the lounge. Her son sat beside her on the sofa, placing the phone on her lap. ‘Now, see here,’ he began, far too quickly, demonstrating buttons and swipes and passwords, until the words jumbled together like a foreign tongue. ‘Wait, one at a time,’ she pleaded, ‘or I’ll forget.’ ‘You’ll pick it up. It’s easy, you’ll see,’ he said, waving off her worries. She nodded, though she knew it would take time—time to accept that the world now lived in these little rectangles, and somehow, she had to fit inside one too. By evening, numbers for the family, her friend Mrs Valentine from down the hall, and the local GP were all stored in the phone. Her son installed a messenger, set up an account and added her to the family group. He enlarged the font so she wouldn’t need to squint. ‘This is the chat. Here’s how to write. If you don’t want to type, you can send a voice message—just hold down the microphone.’ Cautious, her hands trembling, she hit the wrong keys—‘thakn you’ instead of ‘thank you.’ They all laughed—she tried to hide her shame. After they left, the flat was quiet again. On the table: crumbs of the pie, wilting flowers, the phone’s white box. The device itself lay face down. Margaret turned it over, pressing the button as shown. The screen lit up with a photo—her whole family, last New Year. She swiped, looking at the unfamiliar icons. Remember, don’t press anything you shouldn’t. She left the mobile on the table and did the washing up. Let it get used to living here. The next morning, she woke earlier. There was the phone: unfamiliar, but less frightening. She brewed her tea, sat at the table, summoned her courage, and switched it on. The New Year’s photo greeted her again. She poked at the little green phone—the only icon she recognised. A list of contacts appeared. She selected her son. The phone hummed and swirled. ‘Hello?’ her son answered, sounding surprised. ‘Everything all right, Mum?’ ‘Just checking the thing works,’ she replied, feeling a quiet pride. She’d managed on her own. ‘Told you you’d get it. Well done! Next time use the messenger though, it’s cheaper.’ She laughed, heart pounding. She hung up—all by herself. Soon after, the first message arrived in the family chat: ‘Gran, how are you?’ from Lucy. She hesitated, then typed—slowly, painstakingly—‘All good. Having tea,’ and sent it, misspellings and all. ‘Wow, did you write that yourself?!’ came Lucy’s reply, followed by a heart emoji. Margaret caught herself grinning: her words, on the family’s screen at last. When neighbour Mrs Valentine popped in later, she chuckled, ‘So they’ve got you one of those clever phones, eh?’ ‘A smartphone,’ Margaret replied, the word still odd in her mouth, but not unwelcome. ‘Is it biting yet?’ sniffed Valentine. ‘It mostly just beeps, and there aren’t any buttons.’ ‘My grandson swears I need one, but I’m too old for all that online nonsense.’ The word ‘too old’ stung. Margaret used to feel it herself. But now, the phone on her table suggested otherwise—it wasn’t too late to try. A few days on, her son rang: ‘I booked your GP appointment online, Mum. It’s all through Services Online now. You can do it too—I wrote the password down for you.’ She turned to the slip of paper, feeling like it was a prescription—understandable in theory, impossible in practice. But she tried. She opened the browser, typed the address in. It was slow, frustrating—passwords, missed keys, blank screens. She nearly gave up, picking up the landline to confess defeat. ‘I can’t work your passwords. This is just cruel.’ ‘Don’t worry, I’ll show you again. Jamie’s better at it anyway.’ Jamie visited that evening. He explained faster than she could follow, but patiently, showing her how to check appointments and send messages to her doctor. ‘If you mess it up, it’s no disaster—you start over,’ he reassured. For him, perhaps, it was simple. For her, every click and tap felt like crossing a minefield—but after he left, she practised. Because now, the world required her to. A week later, trouble struck—she couldn’t find her GP appointment. Maybe she’d clicked the wrong thing before. Panic threatened, but she steeled herself, found the right page, and booked a slot herself. She even managed to send a voice note to her GP via messenger, explaining the problem, just as Jamie had shown her: ‘Hello, Doctor—I’m having trouble with my blood pressure. I’ve booked for Friday morning. Please keep an eye out for me.’ Within minutes, a reply: ‘I’ve got you on my list. Call if you feel worse.’ And it was all done—without calling in anyone for help. That night, she wrote in the family chat: ‘Booked my GP online! On my own!’ The replies came fast: ‘You’re amazing, Gran!’ ‘So proud of you, Mum.’ ‘See, I told you it’d work!’ With every answer, Margaret felt the thread growing stronger. She might not know the memes, nor fire off emojis at speed, but she could reach them when it mattered. There was a connection now—a lifeline. Later that week, she even dared send a kitchen snapshot to the chat: ‘My tomatoes are coming along,’ she typed. The photos poured in—Lucy’s messy revision notes, her daughter-in-law’s salad, her son’s ‘Office selfie: whose day is more exciting, yours or mine?’ For the first time in years, the kitchen was full of voices, laughter, and gentle arguments, even though everyone was elsewhere. Sometimes, everything went wrong—she’d send voice notes to the wrong chat or type public questions she meant for private eyes. But the responses were always gentle. She was learning, and everyone knew it. Gradually, she used the old landline less and less. She realised she could check the bus times herself, look up recipes, send a question or a photo and hear back in minutes. The world hadn’t passed her by. She hadn’t vanished behind the window pane. One quiet evening, reading family chat on her phone—their photos and jokes, her updates about tea and tomatoes—Margaret smiled. The house was still, but not empty. With a gentle tap, she answered her granddaughter: ‘Call me after your test, I’ll always listen.’ She turned out the kitchen light, glanced back at the phone resting on the table, and knew—as long as she wanted, she could reach out, and someone would answer. And for now, that was enough.

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