When my grandmother passed away, a part of me died with her. She wasn’t just another elderly woman—she was the last thread connecting me to my father. She raised me, held my hand when I was scared, fed me warm pies when exams crushed me, and called every week just to say, “Darling, I’m praying for you.”
After Dad died, Mum quickly found another man. Soon after, there was Max—my half-brother. We never clashed, but we weren’t close either. We were from different worlds, different stories. He was her golden boy, her reason for living, her project. I, on the other hand, was a reminder of her past—of her first marriage. We lived under the same roof, but we might as well have been strangers.
Though Grandmother remained my mother’s former mother-in-law, they still spoke. She helped her, supported her. But all her love, all her heart, she gave to me. And it was me she left her one-bedroom flat in central Birmingham to. It was her deliberate, thought-out decision. We’d discussed it while she was still alive. She’d say, *“Emily, I know how hard you work. You’re studying, you’re fighting for your future. Let this be your safety net.”*
I left for another city—went to university, then graduate school. One year left. Grandmother followed my achievements with pride, calling to check in. The night 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 return right away—only made it back three months later. I just wanted to step into her flat—to sit, to cry, to remember, to sip tea on the windowsill like we used to. But when I unlocked the door with my key, I found strangers inside, the smell of fresh paint, the noise of construction. The place was mid-renovation.
*“Who are you?”* I asked, stunned.
*“Contractors. Max hired us. We’re turning this into a nursery—they’re expecting.”*
I stood there, silent. *Max? My brother?*
I called Mum. She sounded ready for this. *“Yes, I gave him the keys. Emily, they’re having a baby—they’ve nowhere to go. You never mentioned the flat, never brought it up. We thought—well, if you didn’t care, they might as well use it. Just five years, till they save up…”*
I couldn’t believe my ears. Was this a joke? *“Mum, the flat was willed to me. It’s mine. This isn’t ‘we decided’—this wasn’t your decision to make.”*
*“Why are you making such a fuss? He’s family! You always said Max did nothing wrong. He’s got a wife and a child. Are you really going to throw them onto the streets?”*
Just like that. No call. No discussion. No respect. They just waltzed in and declared, *“You didn’t ask, so you must not want it.”* But I wasn’t silent. I was studying. I was grieving. And they? They were handing out what wasn’t theirs to give.
I don’t blame Max. He’s always done whatever Mum says. A proper mummy’s boy. But *her*? She knew how much Grandmother meant to me. How hard I worked. How I scraped by in rented rooms. And still, she erased my right with a single stroke of her *“kindness.”*
Now, I don’t know what to do. Yes, I hate the thought of kicking him out—he’s got a family, a child. And yes, I live in another city now, unsure if I’ll ever return. 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 out to cover my own costs. Instead, every month, I pay strangers while my own walls are papered and my floors replaced—without my say.
I’m furious. Not because I want something from them. But because they took what was *mine*. My memory. My choice. My rightful due. I thought family was supposed to have your back. But today, I learned—sometimes the deepest betrayal comes from the ones who should have protected you first.
