For five years, my sons never visited me—yet the moment I decided to leave my flat to my niece, they descended like vultures.
I have two sons, three grandchildren, two daughters-in-law—and with all that, I lived like an orphan. The second I mentioned passing my flat to my niece, suddenly they remembered they had a mother. They came running, shouting accusations. And it became painfully clear—all they wanted was the property.
When my boys were born, I rejoiced, thinking they’d be my support in old age. How wrong I was. The one who cares for me isn’t my own child, but my niece—who, mind you, already has parents: my brother and his wife.
Perhaps my husband and I failed somewhere, raised them wrong. While their father was alive, they visited now and then. But after he passed, they vanished. Five years without a word.
They live in the same city, mind you. Not right around the corner, but a mere forty-minute bus ride. Both married, both with families. I have two grandsons and a granddaughter I’ve never once held. And here I am, struggling—aching joints, barely walking after an injury. Reaching them by phone is a battle. Always the same empty promises: “We’ll pop by soon, we’ll help,” but words are all they offer.
When the neighbours flooded my kitchen, I finally asked for help—just a bit of plastering. Called one son—promised to come. Called the other—same. Nobody showed. Had to hire a handyman. Paid without complaint—money isn’t everything. But my heart shattered: had I become a stranger to my own children?
Then the fridge broke. I know nothing about appliances, and salesmen love swindling pensioners. Asked my sons to come with me, help pick one. The response? “The shop assistant will explain.” Ended up calling my brother—his daughter and her husband came instead.
Then the pandemic hit. My sons rang once a month with a hollow “How are you?” and nothing more. Offered advice—”Don’t go out, order groceries online”—but never showed me how. My niece did. She calls her parents daily, sorts their meals, medicine, cares for them. And she didn’t forget me.
Realising my own children had abandoned me, she started visiting. Helped with chores, cleaned, cooked, sat with me when I was ill. Came just for tea and a chat. Invited me to every holiday—her family, brother, parents… and me. Her little girl calls me Gran.
And I thought—why not leave the flat to her? She asks for nothing, gives everything freely. I want to repay kindness with kindness. This isn’t a “gift”—it’s gratitude.
As I was heading to the solicitor, my eldest rang. Asked where I was going. I told him. And then came the storm—shouting, blame, claims I’d lost my mind. I listened—then carried on.
That evening, a knock at the door. Both sons stood there. Brought my granddaughter. Even a pie. A miracle, you’d think. But love had nothing to do with it. They got straight to the point: warned me my niece would throw me out. Said she wasn’t family, that they were my blood—how could I leave my home to an outsider?
I looked at them, listened—then said, “Thanks for the concern, but I’ll decide.” They stormed off, slamming the door. Their parting shot? I’d never see my grandkids again, and shouldn’t expect their help.
Well, dears, I stopped expecting long ago. Five years without you—I managed. Now you’re here for the flat. You’re the strangers. I’ll do as I planned: my niece gets the flat. If she ever does turn me out—so be it. That’s my choice. But I believe in her. She’s got heart. Unlike you.
