When Mum gave my flat to my brother without asking, it was because he “couldn’t possibly raise a child on the streets.”
When my grandmother passed away, a part of me died with her. She wasn’t just another elderly relative—she was the last thread connecting me to my father. She raised me, held my hand when I was scared, fed me pies when I struggled through exams, and called every week just to say, “Darling, I’m praying for you.”
After Dad died, Mum quickly found a new man, and soon enough, Max came along—my half-brother. We never clashed, but we were never close either. We’re from different worlds, different stories. He was Mum’s golden child, her reason for living, her little project. I was just a reminder of her old life, her first marriage. We lived under the same roof, but we might as well have been strangers.
Even though Gran was technically Mum’s former mother-in-law, they still got on. She helped, she listened. But all her warmth, all her heart, she gave to me. And she left me her one-bedroom flat in the heart of London. It was deliberate, thought-out—we’d talked about it while she was still alive. “Katie,” she told me, “I know how hard you work. You’re pushing forward, no matter what. At least let this be your safety net.”
I moved away for university, then stayed on for my PhD. One year left. Gran tracked every success with pride, calling to check in. The night before she died, we spoke on the phone—she sounded bright, cheerful. By morning, she was gone. A heart attack.
I was shattered. I couldn’t get back straight away; it took three months before I could face it. I just wanted to visit her flat—to sit on the windowsill with tea like we used to, to remember, to cry. But when I unlocked the door, there were strangers inside, the smell of paint, the racket of builders. The place was mid-renovation.
“Who are you?” I asked, confused.
“The contractor,” one said. “Max hired us. We’re doing up the nursery—they’re expecting.”
I stood there, silent. Max? *My* Max?
I called Mum. She was ready for it.
“Yes, I gave him the keys. Katie, they’re having a baby—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 what I was hearing. Was this some joke?
“Mum, Gran *left* it to me. It’s *mine*. You don’t get to decide that.”
“Don’t be like that. He’s family. You always said Max never did anything wrong. He’s got a wife, a child—you’d throw them out?”
Just like that. No call. No discussion. No respect. They simply decided: *You didn’t ask, so you must not care.* But I wasn’t silent—I was studying, grieving, surviving. And they… they went ahead with what was never theirs to take.
I don’t blame Max. He’s always done what Mum tells him. Mummy’s boy. But *her*? She knew how much Gran meant to me, how hard I worked, how I scraped by renting, pinching pennies… She just erased my right with a single stroke of her so-called kindness.
Now I don’t know what to do. No, I don’t want to leave my brother homeless—he’s got a family. And yes, I live in another city. But forgiving? Impossible. If I could sell the flat, I’d buy a place where I am now, or at least rent it out to cover my own costs. Instead, I’m paying strangers every month while my own home gets redecorated without my say.
I’m angry. Not for greed—but because they took my choice. My memories. My rights. I always 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.
