Why bother with a mortgage when you can just wait for Granny to pop her clogs and inherit her flat? That was the brilliant logic of my husband’s cousin, Trevor. Him and his wife, Sharon, with their three kids, were living in a shoebox of a two-bed in Brighton, squeezed into her mum’s place, all while counting the days until Granny’s place would magically become theirs. No loans for them—just good old-fashioned waiting. And by the looks of it, the waiting was driving them up the wall. Trevor and Sharon had started muttering about “speeding things along” with Granny.
Granny—Margaret Elizabeth, to be precise—was an absolute gem. At 75, she had more spark than a firework. She’d mastered WhatsApp, dragged her mates to gallery openings, fancied a twirl at the local pensioners’ dance club, and had even been known to bat her eyelashes at the odd silver fox. She radiated joy, living proof that age was just a number. But Trevor and Sharon? They just saw a stubborn roadblock between them and their dream home. Patience wasn’t their strong suit.
So they cracked. They demanded Margaret sign the flat over to Trevor and toddle off to a retirement home, insisting it would be “better for her.” Margaret, however, was no pushover. She refused point-blank, and that lit the fuse. Trevor flew into a rage, calling her “selfish” and shouting about “family duty.” Sharon, ever the cheerleader, chimed in with delicate hints that Granny had “overstayed her welcome.”
When my husband, Nigel, and I heard about it, we were gobsmacked. Margaret had always dreamed of going to India—seeing the Taj Mahal, smelling the spices, wandering through Delhi. So we suggested she move in with us, rent out her place, and save up for the trip. She agreed, and soon her spacious three-bed in central Brighton was bringing in a tidy sum. Trevor and Sharon hit the roof. They acted like the flat was theirs by divine right, demanding to move in and accusing Nigel of “brainwashing” Margaret for the inheritance. Trevor even tried to claim the rental income as “his share.” We told him where to stick that idea.
Sharon started dropping by constantly—sometimes alone, sometimes with the kids, always armed with rubbish presents. She’d ask after Margaret, but we weren’t daft. They were still praying she’d kick the bucket and leave them the keys. The greed was staggering.
Meanwhile, Margaret saved up enough and jetted off to India. She came back rejuvenated, suitcase stuffed with stories and photos. We floated the idea of selling the flat to fund more adventures, then settling with us in her golden years. She thought about it—and went for it. The flat sold for a pretty penny, and she bought a cosy little studio on the outskirts of town, stashing the rest for travel.
Margaret ticked off Spain, Austria, Switzerland. In Geneva, on a boat tour, she met a charming Frenchman named Pierre. Their whirlwind romance was straight out of a film—at 75, she married him in France! Nigel and I flew out for the wedding, and it was magical: Margaret glowing in white, surrounded by flowers and laughter. She’d earned every bit of happiness after a lifetime of hard work and putting others first.
Trevor, of course, lost his shell when he found out she’d sold the flat. He demanded the studio, insisting she “didn’t need it.” How he planned to cram five people in there remains a mystery. But frankly, we couldn’t care less. Margaret’s found her happy ending—while Trevor and Sharon? Well, they’re just a cautionary tale about how family shows its true colours when money’s involved.
