Five years had passed since my sons last visited me—yet the moment I decided to leave my flat to my niece, they came rushing in.
I have two sons, three grandchildren, two daughters-in-law—and despite all that, I’ve lived like an orphan. The second I mentioned giving my flat to my niece, they suddenly remembered they had a mother. They stormed in, shouting, making a scene. And it became painfully clear—all they wanted was 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 at least visited occasionally. But the moment he passed, they vanished. Five years now, and I haven’t seen them.
They live in the same city, mind you. Not right around the corner, but just a forty-minute bus ride away. Both married, both with families. I have two grandsons and a granddaughter I’ve never once held. And it’s hard on my own—my legs ache with age, and after an injury, I can barely walk. Getting through to them is an ordeal. Always promises: “We’ll pop by soon, we’ll help,” but nothing ever comes of it.
When the neighbours flooded my kitchen, I finally asked for help. Just a bit of plastering needed. Called one son—he promised. Called the other—he promised too. Neither came. Had to hire a handyman. Paid without hesitation—money wasn’t the issue. But my heart broke: had I become a stranger to my own children?
Then the fridge broke. I know nothing about appliances, and shopkeepers love swindling pensioners. Asked my sons to come with me, help me choose. The answer? “The shop assistant will explain.” Had to ring my brother—his daughter and her husband came, sorted it.
Then the pandemic hit. The boys called once a month, asking, “How are you managing?”—and that was it. Offered advice—“Stay in, order groceries online”—but didn’t show me how. My niece did. She calls her parents daily, sorts their food, their medicine, looks after them. And she didn’t forget me.
Realising my own children had left me alone, she started calling, visiting. Helped with chores, cleaned, cooked, stayed when I was ill. Even just dropped by for tea and a chat. Every holiday, she invited me over—her family, her brother, her parents, and me. Her little girl calls me Gran.
So I thought: why not leave the flat to her? She’s never asked for a thing, but does everything from the heart. 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 rang. Asked where I was going. I told him honestly. And then came the shouting, the accusations, the insistence I’d lost my mind. I listened—then carried on.
That evening, a knock at the door. Both sons. Brought my granddaughter, a cake. A miracle, you’d think. But of course, it wasn’t about love. Straight to business: they tried convincing me my niece would throw me out. That she wasn’t family, that they were my children—how could I give my flat to an outsider?
I looked at them, listened—then said, “Thank you for caring, but I’ll decide.” They stormed off, slamming the door. Their parting shot? I’d never see the grandchildren again, and shouldn’t expect their help.
Well, I’m not expecting, my dears. Five years without you—and I managed. You only showed up now because there’s property at stake. You’re the strangers here. I’ll do as I’ve decided: the flat goes to my niece. And if one day she really does throw me out—well, that’s my choice. But I believe in her. She’s got a heart. Unlike you.
