Mum gave my flat to my brother. Without asking. Because he “can’t possibly live on the streets with a child.”
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 scared, fed me apple crumble when exams weighed me down, and called every week just to say, “My dear, I’m praying for you.”
After Dad’s death, Mum quickly moved on to another man. Soon after, Max—my half-brother—came into my life. We never clashed, but we were never close either. We came from different worlds, different stories. He was Mum’s golden boy, her purpose, her pride. I was just a reminder of the past, of her first marriage. We lived under the same roof, yet each of us lived alone.
Even though Nan was my mum’s former mother-in-law, they stayed civil. Nan helped her, supported her. But all her love, all her heart, she gave to me. So when she left me her one-bed flat in central Manchester, it was deliberate. We’d talked about it while she was still here. She’d say, “Sophie, love, I know how hard it’s been for you. Studying, pushing forward. At least let this be your safety net.”
I left for uni, then a PhD. One year left. Nan tracked my progress like a hawk, ringing me, asking after every paper. The day before she died, we spoke on the phone. She sounded bright. By morning, she was gone. Heart failure.
It shattered me. I couldn’t return immediately—only three months later. I just wanted to step into her flat, sit by the window with a cuppa like we used to, cry, remember. But when I unlocked the door, strangers stared back. The sharp scent of fresh paint. The sound of drills. A renovation in full swing.
“Who are you?” I managed.
“We’re contractors. Max hired us. Turning this into a nursery. Baby on the way.”
I froze. Max? My brother?
I rang Mum. Her tone was rehearsed. “Yes, I gave him the keys. Sophie, be reasonable—they’re expecting, and they’ve nowhere to go. You never mentioned the flat, so we assumed you didn’t need it. They’ll stay five years, save up, then—”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Was this a joke? “Mum, Nan left it to me. It’s mine. This wasn’t your call to make.”
“Must you make a scene? He’s family. You’ve always said Max did nothing wrong. Would you really throw them onto the streets?”
Just like that. No call. No discussion. No respect. They saw my silence and decided, “She doesn’t care.” But I wasn’t silent—I was studying, grieving, surviving. And they… they took what wasn’t theirs.
I don’t blame Max. He’s always done as Mum says. But her? She knew how much Nan meant to me, how I scraped by renting, how I saved every penny. And she erased my claim with a single stroke.
Now I’m torn. No, I don’t want to leave Max homeless—he’s got a family. And yes, I’m settled in another city, unsure if I’ll return. But forgiveness? Impossible. If I could sell it, I’d buy a place here or cover my rent. Instead, every month, I pay strangers while my own flat gets redecorated without my say.
I’m furious. Not for greed—but because they stole my right. To memory. To choice. To what’s mine by every right. I thought family was supposed to have your back. But today I learned: sometimes betrayal cuts deepest from the ones who should’ve protected you first.
