For five years, my sons didn’t visit me—but the moment I decided to leave my flat to my niece, they stormed in like a whirlwind.
I have two sons, three grandchildren, and two daughters-in-law—yet I’ve lived like an orphan. The second I mentioned passing my flat to my niece, they suddenly remembered they had a mother. They rushed over, making a scene. And it became crystal clear—all they want from me is the property.
When my boys were born, I was overjoyed, thinking they’d be my support in old age. Well, I was wrong. The one who cares for me isn’t my own child, but my niece—who, mind you, has her own parents: my brother and his wife.
Perhaps my husband and I made mistakes somewhere, failed to raise decent sons. While their father was alive, they visited occasionally. But the moment he passed—they vanished. It’s been five years since I last saw them.
They live in the same city, mind you. Not right around the corner, but just a forty-minute bus ride away. Both are married, both have families. I have two grandsons and a granddaughter I’ve never even held. And I struggle alone—my legs ache with age, and after an injury, I can barely walk. Reaching my sons is an ordeal. Every time, it’s empty promises: “We’ll come soon, we’ll help soon.” But nothing ever happens.
When the neighbours flooded my kitchen, I finally asked for help—just a simple fix for the ceiling. I called one son—he promised. I called the other—he promised too. Neither showed up. I had to hire a handyman. I paid without hesitation—money isn’t everything—but my heart shattered. Have I become a stranger to my own children?
Then the fridge broke. I know nothing about appliances, and salesmen love taking advantage of pensioners. I asked my sons to come with me, help me choose. Their reply? “The shop assistants will explain.” So I called my brother—his daughter and her husband came, sorted it for me.
Then the pandemic hit. My sons started calling once a month. “How are you?”—that was it. They’d advise, “Stay home, order groceries online,” but never explained how. My niece, though, showed me everything. She calls her parents daily, sorts their food, medicine, looks after them. And she didn’t forget me.
Realising my children had left me alone, she started visiting, helping around the house—cleaning, cooking, sitting with me when I was ill. She’d even pop by just for tea and a chat. Every holiday, she’d invite me over—her family, her brother, her parents, and me. Her little girl calls me Granny.
And I thought—why not leave the flat to her? She’s never asked for anything, yet gives so freely. I want to repay kindness with kindness. This isn’t a “gift”—it’s gratitude.
As I was about to head to the solicitor, my eldest son called. Asked where I was going. I told him honestly. Then came the shouting, the accusations, the claims I’d lost my mind. I listened—and kept walking.
That evening—a knock at the door. Both sons stood there. Brought my granddaughter. Brought a cake. A miracle, you’d think. But of course, it wasn’t about love. They got straight to the point: insisting my niece would throw me out, that she wasn’t family, while they—my own flesh and blood—deserved the flat.
I looked at them, listened, then said, “Thanks for the concern, but I’ll decide.” They stormed off, slamming the door, warning I’d never see my grandchildren again and shouldn’t expect their help.
But I don’t expect it, my dears. Five years you were gone—and I managed. Now you’ve only come back for the flat. You’re the ones who’ve become strangers. I’ll do as I’ve decided—the flat goes to my niece. And if one day she truly does throw me out? Well, that’s my choice. But I believe in her. She has a heart. Unlike you.
