For five years, my sons hadn’t bothered to visit me. But the moment I decided to leave my flat to my niece, they swooped in like vultures.
I have two sons, three grandchildren, and two daughters-in-law—yet I’ve lived like an orphan. The second I mentioned transferring the flat to my niece, they suddenly remembered they had a mother. They rushed over, shouting and making a scene. It became painfully clear—all they want from me is the property.
When my boys were born, I was overjoyed—I thought 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.
Maybe my husband and I made mistakes, failed to raise decent sons. While their father was alive, they at least visited occasionally. But the moment 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 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 even held. And it’s hard for me alone—my legs ache with age, and after an injury, I can barely walk. Getting through to them is an ordeal. Every call ends with empty promises: “We’ll come soon, we’ll help,” but nothing ever happens.
When the neighbors flooded the kitchen, I thought I’d finally ask for help. Just a bit of ceiling repair. Called my eldest—he promised. Called the younger—same story. Neither showed. I had to hire a handyman. Paid without hesitation—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 me choose. The reply? “The shop assistants will explain.” Ended up ringing my brother—his daughter and her husband came to help.
Then came the pandemic. My sons started calling once a month, asking, “How are you?”—and that was it. Gave advice—“don’t go out, order groceries online”—but never explained how. My niece, though, showed me everything. She calls her parents daily, orders their food, their medicine, looks after them. And she didn’t forget me.
Realizing I’d been abandoned, she started visiting, calling. Helped with chores, cleaned, cooked, sat with me when I was ill. Even just dropped by for tea and a chat. Invited me for every holiday—her family, her brother, her parents, and me. Her little girl calls me Grandma.
And I thought—why not leave the flat to her? She never asked, but she’s done everything from the heart. I want to repay kindness with kindness. It’s not a “gift,” it’s gratitude.
As I was preparing to go to the solicitor, my eldest rang. Asked where I was headed. I told him the truth. And then came the storm—shouting, accusations, claims I’d lost my mind. I let him rant—then carried on.
That evening, a knock at the door. Both sons stood there. Brought my granddaughter. Brought a cake. A miracle, you’d think. Except it wasn’t about love. They cut straight to business: insisting my niece would throw me out. That she wasn’t family, but they were—how could I leave the flat to an outsider?
I listened, then said, “Thanks for the concern, but I’ll decide for myself.” They stormed off, slamming the door, warning I’d never see the grandchildren again, nor get their help.
But I’m not waiting, my dears. Five years without you—I survived. You only came back for the flat. You’re the strangers now. I’ll do as I’ve decided—the flat goes to my niece. And if she ever does throw me out? Well, that’s my choice. But I believe in her. She has a heart. Unlike you.
