For five years, my sons couldn’t be bothered to visit. But the moment I mentioned leaving my flat to my niece—suddenly, they came flocking.
I’ve got two sons, three grandchildren, two daughters-in-law—and yet, I’ve lived like an orphan. The second I said I wanted to pass my flat to my niece, they remembered they had a mother. Came rushing over, made a scene. And it became painfully clear—they only want my property.
When my boys were born, I thought they’d be my support in old age. Well, I was wrong. The one looking after me isn’t my own child—it’s my niece, who, by the way, has her own parents: my brother and his wife.
Maybe my husband and I went wrong somewhere, failed to raise decent sons. While their father was alive, they dropped by occasionally. But once he passed, they vanished. Five years—that’s how long it’s been since I last saw them.
They live in the same city, mind you. Not exactly next door, but a forty-minute bus ride away. Both married, both with families. I’ve got two grandsons and a granddaughter I’ve never even held. And it’s hard on my own—aching knees, barely walking after an injury. Getting through to my kids is a saga. Always the same promises: “We’ll pop round soon, we’ll help,” but it never goes beyond words.
When the neighbours flooded the kitchen, I finally asked for help. Just needed the ceiling patched up. Called one son—promised he’d come. Called the other—same story. Neither showed. Had to call a handyman. Paid without grumbling—money’s not the point. But my heart broke: had I really become a stranger to my own children?
Then the fridge broke. I haven’t a clue about appliances, and salesfolk love swindling pensioners. Asked my sons to come along, help me pick one. Their answer? “The shop assistant will explain.” So I rang my brother—his daughter and her husband came instead.
Then the pandemic hit. My sons called once a month: “You all right?” That was it. Offered advice—”stay in, get groceries delivered”—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 own children had left me alone, she started visiting. Helped with chores, cooked, kept me company when I was ill. Even dropped by just for tea and a chat. Invited me to every holiday gathering—her family, brother, parents, and me. Her little girl calls me Gran.
So I thought—why not leave the flat to her? She’s never asked for anything, but she gives so much. 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—shouting, accusations, claims I’d lost my mind. I listened, then carried on.
That evening, a knock at the door. Both sons, standing there. Brought the granddaughter. Brought a cake. A miracle, you’d think. Except—of course—it wasn’t about love. Straight to business: “She’ll kick you out. She’s not family—we are! How could you give it to an outsider?”
I looked at them, listened, then said, “Thanks for the concern, but I’ll decide.” They stormed off, slamming the door. A parting shot: “You’ll never see the grandkids again, don’t expect any more help.”
Oh, I don’t, dears. Five years without you—I managed. Now you’re here just to stake a claim. You’re the strangers now. I’ll do as I’ve decided—the flat’s going to my niece. And if she ever does throw me out? Well, that’s my choice. But I believe in her. She’s got a heart. Unlike you.
