**Diary Entry**
I couldn’t care for my mother, but she has all the energy to take me to court!
When I was a little girl, my world was my grandmother. She was the one who raised me, taught me about life, kissed my scraped knees when I fell, and held me close whenever Mum disappeared yet again in search of her “happy ending.” Mum was always off somewhere—with one man, then another—and she simply had no time or desire for me. She’d show up like a guest: a day here, a day there, with a few empty words and a stranger’s indifference in her eyes, then just vanish.
But Nan… Nan was everything. She was my mother, my friend, my rock. She gave me all of herself—her time, her love, her last shilling. Even when I grew up and left for university in another city, Nan remained my closest, dearest person. But, as fate would have it, life had other plans. She fell seriously ill and needed round-the-clock care. I dropped out of school and came home. Money was tight, and I begged Mum for help. But every time, it was the same—excuses and complaints:
“I can barely stand on my own two feet… My blood pressure, my heart, my joints… You’ve no idea how hard it is for me. I might end up disabled!”
Hearing this day after day, I was baffled—why say these things if she had no intention of helping? One evening, Nan saw my confusion and said quietly,
“She’s setting up her alibi for the future. So no one can accuse her of neglecting her own mother. Can’t you see? She’s ‘too ill’ to care.”
And sure enough, Mum never missed a chance to emphasise her ‘frailty.’ But the moment Nan put our house in my name, and then, years later, passed away—something miraculous happened. Suddenly, Mum found her strength, forgot all her ‘ailments,’ and raced to court. She claimed I’d taken advantage of Nan, that she hadn’t been ‘in her right mind,’ so the will and deed should be overturned. And what a circus it became! Paperwork, lawsuits, hearings… I couldn’t fathom how she had the stamina for it all. Just weeks before, she’d sworn she could barely walk—now she was sprinting between solicitors’ offices.
Day by day, it stunned me—how much spite and greed she had in her. Where was that strength when Nan needed care? Where was that energy when I, a twenty-year-old girl, was drowning in the stress of looking after a bedridden woman with no money, no help? Back then, all she did was sob down the phone about how terrible she felt. Now? She’s lively, sharp, relentless. She’s spun such a yarn to anyone who’ll listen—about how her poor mother was ‘robbed,’ how she was tricked, betrayed, left penniless.
Yet not once did she sit by Nan’s bedside. Not one night did she stay awake with her. Not a single pill did she buy. It was all on me. Only I knew how Nan suffered—how she clenched her teeth through the pain, how she lost consciousness, how she whispered for water in the dark. Only I held her cold hand as she took her last breath, only I wept at her bedside…
When Nan signed the house over to me, she looked me in the eye and said,
“I don’t want your mother getting a single thing. You were there—only you. This is yours. You’ve earned it.”
I don’t want revenge. I don’t want a war. But I won’t let anyone—not even my own mother—trample on the wishes of the woman who gave me everything. I have to fight for this—not for the house, but for Nan’s memory. For love. For what’s fair.
Let Mum drag me through court, spin her tales, play the victim. I know the truth. And as long as I have a voice, I won’t let her silence it.
