Lately, it feels like we’re all living on the edge of a knife. My grandmother has been rewriting her will for years now, as if she’s playing a twisted game of chess, strategically deciding who will inherit her house, her savings, her jewelry—everything she has amassed over a lifetime. It seems like she herself doesn’t even know what she wants, and we have all become unwilling players in her cruel game.
To be honest, I never expected or wanted to inherit her fortune. What matters to me more is the peace in our family, and that peace has been shattered beyond repair. Relatives now look at each other with suspicion, whispering behind closed doors, forming secret alliances. Before the will became an issue, everyone got along just fine, but now, suddenly, they’re all bending over backward to win her favor. And the most disturbing part? My grandmother seems to enjoy watching the chaos unfold.
She has always been difficult. She demanded respect but never gave it in return. Talking to her was nearly impossible—every conversation turned into an argument, a lecture, or an outright fight. And recently, she’s only gotten worse. She constantly complains that we don’t visit her, that she has little time left, and that we will all be sorry when she’s gone. But how can we take care of someone who actively pushes everyone away?
My mother has tried to maintain a relationship with her for years. She has sent money, helped when needed, but has never received a simple “thank you” in return. My grandmother saw it as an obligation, as if everyone owed her something. From a young age, I learned that arguing with her was pointless—she would never admit she was wrong. To her, only her opinion mattered, and anyone who disagreed was simply mistaken.
The only person who could handle her was my grandfather. He was the only one who knew how to calm her down, to talk to her without everything turning into a war. But when he passed away, everything changed. At first, she seemed lost, devastated even, but soon enough, she reverted to her old self—angry, demanding, and vengeful.
The first target of her rage was my uncle—my mother’s brother. He never needed her advice, never asked for her opinion, but that didn’t stop her from meddling in his life. Over the years, she had said so many cruel things to him that it was a wonder he still tried to maintain contact. Yet, when she started complaining about being lonely, he made an effort to be there for her. He visited her, listened to her, but—unsurprisingly—it always ended in fights.
The strangest part? He never even wanted her inheritance. He had his own home, his own life, and never relied on her for anything. Yet one day, out of nowhere, she announced that he wouldn’t get a single cent—”just on principle.” That was the last straw. He cut her off completely, and honestly, I think it was the best decision he could have made. My grandmother’s temper was not something everyone could endure.
Then it was my mother’s turn. One day, my grandmother called her, complaining about feeling unwell. My mother, without hesitation, sent her money for medicine, but it turned out that wasn’t what my grandmother wanted. She expected my mother to drop everything and come running to take care of her.
But my mother had her own responsibilities—her job, her commitments, her life. She couldn’t just abandon everything. When she explained this, my grandmother exploded with rage. She accused my mother of being selfish, of not caring about her at all. My mother tried to reason with her, to make her understand, but there was no use. Once again, my grandmother cut ties, as she had done with so many before.
Yet, despite everything, my mother never stopped helping her. She kept sending money, making sure she had everything she needed. And for a moment, things seemed to improve. My grandmother even declared that she would leave everything to my mother. She showed her the will as proof.
But we knew better than to believe her.
Sure enough, a few months later, another argument broke out, and just like that, the will was torn up and rewritten. This time, with new names—people she had yet to drive away. But we all knew it was only a matter of time.
Then it was my turn. For a long time, I tried to ignore her passive-aggressive remarks, reminding myself that she was just an old woman desperate for attention. But one day, I had enough. I picked up the phone and told her straight—I wasn’t going to play her games anymore. I wouldn’t visit, I wouldn’t entertain her manipulations, and I didn’t care who got her inheritance.
And you know what? I felt free. A weight lifted off my shoulders.
Who will get her house? Who will inherit her money? Who will be left with all her old belongings, her silverware, her furniture, her dusty heirlooms?
I don’t care anymore.
