When my grandmother passed away, a part of me died with her. She wasn’t just another elder in the family. She was the last thread connecting me to my father. She raised me, held my hand when I was afraid, fed me pies when I struggled through exams, and called every week just to say, “Darling, I’m praying for you.”
After Dad died, my mother quickly found herself a new husband. Soon after, Max came along—my half-brother. We never clashed, but we weren’t close either. We were from different worlds, different stories. He was Mum’s golden boy, her purpose, her project. I, on the other hand, was a reminder of the past, of her first marriage. We lived under the same roof, but each of us was on our own.
Though my grandmother had been my mother’s former mother-in-law, they still spoke. She helped, she supported. But all her warmth and love went to me—and it was me she left her one-bedroom flat in central London to. It was her clear, deliberate decision. We’d discussed it while she was still alive. She’d said,
“Emily, I know how hard it is for you. You’re studying, you’re pushing forward. Let this be your safe place.”
I moved away for university, then postgraduate studies. One year left. Grandmother followed my progress with pride, calling to check in. The day before she died, we spoke on the phone. She sounded lively. By morning, she was gone. A heart attack.
It shattered me. I couldn’t get away right away—only made it back three months later. I just wanted to stop by her flat, to sit, to cry, to remember, to have tea by the window like we used to. But when I unlocked the door, strangers were inside—the smell of paint, the noise of construction. The place was mid-renovation.
“Who are you?” I asked, baffled.
“We’re hired help. Max called us. They’re making a nursery—baby on the way.”
I stood there, silent. Max? My brother?
I rang my mother. She sounded rehearsed.
“Yes, I gave him the keys. Emily, they’ve got a baby coming, nowhere to live. You never mentioned the flat, never brought it up. We assumed you didn’t need it. They’ll stay five years, save up, then move—”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Was this a joke?
“Mum, that flat was willed to me. It’s mine. This wasn’t your decision to make.”
“Don’t start. He’s family. You’ve said yourself Max isn’t to blame. He’s got a wife and child. You’d throw them out?”
Just like that. No call. No discussion. No respect. They just came in and decided, “You didn’t ask, so it’s not yours.” I wasn’t silent. I was studying. I was grieving. And they… took over what wasn’t theirs to touch.
I don’t blame Max. He’s always done what Mum says. A mummy’s boy. But her? She knew how I clung to my grandmother, how I’d worked, how I’d rented, how I’d scraped by. She erased my rights with a single stroke.
Now I don’t know what to do. I can’t kick my brother out—he’s got a family. I’m not even sure if I’ll move back. But I can’t forgive. If I could sell the flat, I’d buy a place where I live now. Or at least rent it to cover my own costs. Instead, I’m paying strangers each month while my own flat gets wallpapered and re-floored without my say.
I’m angry. Not for greed, but because they took my right—to memory, to choice, to what’s justly mine. I thought family was supposed to stand by you. But today I learned: sometimes betrayal is closest. Right where you expected protection.
