I cared for an old woman who thought I was dirt. But when I read her will—I couldn’t hold back my tears.
When I arrived in Manchester, I was twenty-seven. Back in Moldova, my mother remained, soon to face surgery, along with mountains of mortgage debt. I promised myself: I’d work a year and a half at most—then return. Home.
Finding work was easy—an agency offered me a job as a carer for an elderly woman. The landlady, Margaret Whitmore, needed someone to look after her eighty-four-year-old mother, Edith. I agreed. The pay wasn’t much, but it was steady.
From the very first day, Edith met me with hostility. “What’s your background?” she asked the moment I stepped in. I told her. She wrinkled her nose. “Another Moldovan. First the Romani, now you. Nothing but rubbish sent my way.” It only got worse.
Every morning began with complaints: the porridge wasn’t right, the dusting was sloppy, I shut the door too loud, even my breathing was too noisy. Sometimes I’d overhear her whispering to her daughter: “She’s stealing, mark my words. Keep an eye on her.” It made me sick. I bathed her feet, helped her stand, bought her medicine—all for nothing but cold scorn.
For six months, I endured. Only the thought of my mother in hospital kept me from slamming the door on my way out. Then one day, Edith accused me of stealing fifty pounds. They searched the flat—and found the notes in her own handbag. No apology. No remorse. Just that same contempt in her eyes.
I packed my things. Told her I was leaving. She stood in the doorway, smirking. “Go on, then. You’ll come crawling back—your sort always does.”
“I’ll manage,” I said softly. “Even without you.”
And then—utterly unexpected—her voice shifted. No venom. Only bewilderment.
“You… you put up with all this… for your mother?”
I froze. Then nodded. Told her everything—the surgery, the debts. She listened silently. Then, slowly, she shuffled over, sat beside me, took my hand—and… wept. Just like that. No words. Tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks.
“Forgive me… I was punishing you. Not you. My daughter. She abandoned me. I thought if you left, she might come back. But you… you endured it. For your mum.”
Everything changed after that. We spoke openly. She told me about her life, I told her about mine. She even gave me money to visit my husband. When I returned, she met me at the door with a scarf she’d knitted herself.
Four months later, she died. Quietly, in her sleep. I wailed as if she were my own blood.
A week after, Margaret arrived with a solicitor.
“I must inform you of the will,” the man said. “Edith left you… a considerable sum.”
Margaret went pale. “She’s gone mad! What did you do to my mother? Bribe her?”
I looked at her, silent. Then—suddenly—stepped forward and hugged her.
“That’s what I did. I just… hugged her.”
