Why bother with a mortgage when you could just wait for Grandma to pop her clogs and inherit her flat? That was the brilliant logic of my husband’s cousin, Oliver. He, his wife Jessica, and their three kids were living in a cramped two-bed in Brighton, squeezed into Jessica’s mother’s place, all while dreaming of the day Grandma’s London flat would fall into their laps. The whole family seemed to think life would be a bowl of cherries the moment they got their hands on it. Oliver and Jessica even started whispering about “speeding things along” with Grandma—classy, right?
Grandma Edith, though, was an absolute treasure. At seventy-five, she was livelier than most twenty-somethings—savvy with her smartphone, always off to galleries, theatre shows, and even the occasional cheeky flirt at the local pensioners’ dance class. She radiated joy, proving age was just a number. But to Oliver and Jessica, her zest for life wasn’t inspiring—it was downright inconvenient. Patience had never been their strong suit.
Finally, they cracked. They decided Edith should just sign the flat over to Oliver and toddle off to a retirement home—for her own good, naturally. But Edith wasn’t having any of it. When she firmly refused, Oliver could hardly believe it. He ranted about her being “selfish” and “not thinking of her grandchildren,” while Jessica chimed in with some not-so-subtle hints about her “overstaying her welcome.”
My husband and I were horrified when we heard. Edith had always dreamed of travelling—seeing the Taj Mahal, wandering Delhi’s spice-scented streets. So we suggested she move in with us, rent out her flat, and save up for her adventures. She loved the idea, and soon her spacious three-bed in central London was earning a tidy income.
Oliver and Jessica? Oh, they lost it. They acted like the flat was rightfully theirs, demanding Edith let them move in—or at least hand over the rent money. They even accused my husband, James, of “manipulating” her for the inheritance. Oliver went full Shakespearean villain, insisting the rental cash was his “rightful share.” We shut that nonsense down fast.
Then Jessica started dropping by—first alone, then with the kids, then bearing ridiculous “gifts.” She’d ask after Edith with these wide, innocent eyes, but we knew the game. They were still banking on her keeling over so they could swoop in. The sheer shamelessness was impressive.
Meanwhile, Edith saved up and jetted off to India. She returned glowing, with stories and photos galore. We told her to keep the momentum going—sell the flat, keep travelling, and spend her golden years with us in peace. She thought it over and went for it. The flat sold fast (London prices being what they are), and with the cash, she bought a cosy little studio in Brighton and stuffed the rest into her wandering fund.
Edith traipsed through Spain, Austria, and Switzerland. In Switzerland, on a boat trip across Lake Geneva, she met a dashing Frenchman named Pierre. Their romance was straight out of a film—and at seventy-five, she married him! We flew to France for the wedding, and it was magical: Edith in white, glowing, surrounded by flowers and laughter. She’d earned every bit of that happiness after a lifetime of hard work and sacrifice.
Oliver? Well, when he heard about the sale, he turned purple. He demanded the studio, insisting she “didn’t need it.” Never mind how he planned to cram five people into a one-bed. But by then, we couldn’t care less. Edith had found her joy, and that was all that mattered.
As for Oliver and Jessica? Let’s just say nothing reveals true colours like a whiff of inheritance.
