Long ago, in a quiet corner of London, an elderly woman made a choice that would unravel the ties of her own family. It began with a phone call from my mother one morning, her voice laced with concern. “Darling,” she said, “would you visit our neighbour, Auntie Margaret? 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 Whitmore since childhood. We’d lived in the same building for years, and even after I’d married and moved away, I’d often stop to chat with her on my visits home. At ninety, she’d still been spry, baking scones for my mother and gossiping with the other ladies on the bench. But lately, her heart troubled her, and her strength waned. Her youngest son, James, lived with her, tending to her needs, while her eldest, Edward, had long since drifted away—busy with his military career, his wife, his comfortable home in the outskirts of the city.
Years ago, Edward had left for Sandhurst, built a life of his own, and rarely visited. When he did, he was distant—sometimes cold, sometimes brusque. James, though, had stayed. And so, that spring, Margaret decided to sign her flat over to him.
When Edward learned of it, he’d said nothing at first. “I don’t need it,” he’d shrugged. “Let James have it.” It seemed fair enough. But the peace didn’t last.
That evening, when I stepped into Margaret’s sitting room, her eyes were red-rimmed, her hands unsteady. “Dear,” she whispered, “where does one go for… one of those… genetic tests?”
I stared. “Auntie Margaret, why on earth would you need that?”
And then she told me. Edward had come by days earlier, his face like thunder. “I’m not his son,” he’d said flatly. “Our blood types don’t match. Now I see why you gave the flat to James. He’s yours. I’m not.”
With that, he’d slammed the door and vanished. He wouldn’t answer her calls.
Margaret’s voice trembled. “My husband had blood type A, I’m sure of it… but mine? I don’t recall. It was in my old passport, but that’s long gone. And Edward’s—I’ve no idea. Back then, after the birth, no one told me…”
Someone had suggested a DNA test. But I explained the difficulty—her husband had passed decades ago. To compare, they’d need his remains, and that would require court approval. Even then, it would cost a fortune.
She wept again. “So I can’t prove it to him?”
I nearly wept myself. “Auntie Margaret,” I said firmly, “you owe him no proof. He never even named his blood type. This is just spite. He’s a grown man acting like a child. You did right by the son who stayed. He’s only twisting the knife.”
I took a breath. “If you like, go with James to the doctor. Have your blood typed. Maybe the hospital where Edward was born still has records. But even if not—he ought to come back and beg your forgiveness. Not fling accusations that cut deeper than any blade.”
She nodded, calmer now. “You’re right… but he still won’t answer.”
I asked for Edward’s number. Outside, under the dim streetlamp, I rang him. He picked up. “Hello,” I said. “I’m your mother’s neighbour.”
“What do you want?”
“To talk about Margaret. She’s heartbroken—”
The line went dead.
I stood there, the phone in my hand, thinking how easily love turns to poison when pride takes its place. How cruel it is, for a son to punish his mother for a sin she never committed.
Margaret hadn’t betrayed him. She’d simply given her home to the son who hadn’t left. Edward had walked away long ago. Now he sought revenge—cold, silent, and vicious. Yet to her, he’d always been her boy. Hers alone.
Until that day.
