Yesterday morning, my mum called me, her voice trembling with worry:
“Sweetheart, could you pop round to see our neighbour, Auntie Margaret? She’s terribly upset—asked for some legal advice. Didn’t explain much, just said you were clever and would know what to do…”
I’d known Margaret Stevens since I was a girl. We’d lived in the same block of flats for years, and even after I married and moved away, I’d often visit Mum and chat with Auntie Margaret on the bench outside. She was ninety now, but until recently, she’d been spry—always smiling, bringing Mum cakes, gossiping with the neighbours. Lately, though, she’d complained of heart troubles and high blood pressure. Her younger son, James, lived with her and helped however he could. Her eldest, William, lived across town and rarely visited.
William had left years ago for military school, then served abroad, married well, and built a comfortable life—house in the countryside, nice car. Successful, but distant. With his mother, it was always strained: silent treatments, sulking, barking orders. James, though, stayed close. As time passed, he became her only support. This spring, Margaret decided to sign the flat over to him.
When William found out, he didn’t object. “I don’t need it,” he’d said. “I’ve got everything. Let James have something of his own.” It seemed fair. But the peace didn’t last.
When I knocked on Margaret’s door that evening, her face was blotchy from crying. She dabbed her eyes and whispered, “Dear… where can you get one of those… genetic tests done?”
I was stunned. “Auntie Margaret, why on earth would you need that?”
Then she told me. Days earlier, William had turned up unannounced. Glaring, he’d said, “I’m not Dad’s son. Our blood types don’t match. It all makes sense now—why you gave the flat to James and not me. I’m no kin to you. He is.” Then he’d slammed the door and left. No chance to reply. Now he wouldn’t answer her calls.
Margaret’s voice shook. “My husband had a positive blood type, I remember… but mine—I’m not sure. It was in my old passport, but I renewed it ages ago. And William’s… I don’t even know. When he was born, I was in no state to ask…”
Someone had suggested a DNA test. I explained it wouldn’t be simple: her husband had passed over twenty years ago. Testing would require either a living sample—blood, hair—or exhumation, which meant court approval and a fortune in legal fees.
She wept again. “So I can’t even prove to my own son that he’s his father’s child?”
I couldn’t hold back. My voice wavered. “Auntie Margaret, you don’t owe him proof! He didn’t even state his blood type. He’s just hurt. Made up an excuse to punish you. A grown man acting like a spoiled child! You did right—giving the flat to the son who stayed. He’s only twisting the knife because he’s upset.”
I took a breath. “If you like, go with James to the clinic, get your blood typed. Maybe the hospital where William was born still has records. Your husband’s papers might be in an archive. But even if not—William should come begging your forgiveness, not throwing cruel accusations worse than any blade.”
She nodded, calmer now. “You’re right… but he still won’t answer his phone.”
I asked for William’s number. Outside, I dialled. He picked up.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m your mum’s neighbour.”
“What do you want?”
“I’d like to talk about Margaret—”
“I’m listening.”
“She’s heartbroken over this.”
Then—silence. He’d hung up.
I stood there, staring at my phone, struck by one thought: how easily the deepest bonds shatter when love gives way to spite. And how chilling it is when a son accuses his mother of a betrayal she never committed.
Margaret hadn’t betrayed anyone. She’d simply given her home to the child who stayed. The eldest had walked away—and now, coldly, wordlessly, he made her pay. Yet to her, he’d always been her son. Hers. Only hers. Until yesterday.
Some wounds never heal—but the cruelest are those we inflict on the ones who loved us first.
