“Mum, how could you do this?”
I still can’t believe that conversation with my mother even happened. I called just to check in, to ask how she was, and instead found myself at the heart of a family drama that turned everything upside down. “Mum, are you serious?” I nearly shouted down the line. “I’m your only son. I’ve got a little boy—your only grandson, who you’ve never even met—and you’re signing over your flat to some stranger? And then you greet me like nothing’s wrong? ‘Hello, love, long time no hear’?” Silence hung on the other end of the line while bitterness and confusion churned inside me. How could she do this?
My name is James. I’m thirty-five, the only son of my mother, Margaret Elizabeth. We’ve never had the easiest relationship. When I was a child, she worked two jobs to keep us afloat, and for that, I’ll always be grateful. But her stubbornness, her insistence on doing everything herself, built a wall between us. When I married Emily and our son, Oliver, was born, I hoped Mum would finally become part of our family. But she never came to meet him—always too busy, or blaming her health. I tried not to press, calling once a month, sending photos of Ollie, only to get short replies: “That’s lovely, dear.” And now I learn she’s given her flat away to some woman I’ve never heard of.
It started when my aunt, Margaret’s sister, phoned to tell me Mum had signed a deed of gift for her flat. At first, I thought it was a mistake—maybe my aunt had got it wrong. But she was certain: Mum had transferred ownership to a woman named Sarah, who supposedly “helps her around the house.” I was stunned. Mum lives in a small market town, in a modest two-bedroom flat she and Dad bought decades ago. It wasn’t just property—it was our family’s history, the place I grew up. And now it belonged to a stranger?
I called Mum immediately, demanding answers. She replied calmly, as if nothing were amiss. “Yes, James, I gave the flat to Sarah,” she said. “She’s been ever so kind—shopping, cleaning, even driving me to the countryside. You’re so far away, love, you’ve got your own life to lead.” I didn’t know what to say. Yes, Emily and I live in another city, three hours away, but I’d always offered help. I’d asked if she needed anything, suggested hiring a carer, even begged to visit. But she’d always brushed me off: “Don’t fuss, I’m fine.” And now she claimed I was “too far,” while this Sarah—whoever she was—had become her lifeline?
I asked who Sarah was, why Mum trusted her so much. Turns out, she’s a neighbour who started dropping by a couple of years ago, running errands. According to Mum, she’s “like a daughter”—cooking meals, picking up prescriptions, even taking her on little trips. I don’t begrudge Mum the company, but gifting her the flat? That’s not a box of chocolates! I tried to reason with her. “Mum, I’m your son. Oliver’s your grandson. You don’t even know what he looks like, and you’re handing everything to a stranger? How is that fair?” But Mum just sighed. “James, you’re never here. Sarah is. And it’s my decision.”
The hurt cut deeper than I expected. Yes, I don’t visit every month—I’ve got work, a mortgage, a family to raise. But I always thought we were in this together, that she cared about our future. Oliver’s only four. I’d dreamed that flat might one day help him—uni fees, maybe a start in life. And now it’s gone to this Sarah, a name I’d never heard until today. I asked if Mum wasn’t afraid of being taken advantage of. She shut me down. “I know what I’m doing. Sarah’s good people.”
After that call, I couldn’t settle. Emily, seeing how shaken I was, suggested we drive down to see Mum in person. We packed Oliver into the car and went. When we arrived, Mum hugged us all, her smile warm but strained. Over tea, I brought up the flat again. I didn’t want a row—just to understand. “Mum, explain this to me,” I said. “If you need help, I’ll visit more. I’ll hire someone. But why give away your home?” She looked at me, weary. “James, I don’t want to be a burden. Sarah’s here. You’re not. I did what I thought was best.”
Those words stung more than I’d imagined. Did she really think she’d be a burden? I told her we were family, that Oliver needed his grandmother, that I wanted to be there. But Mum just shook her head. In that moment, I saw it—she was lonely. And Sarah had filled that void. It was painful, but suddenly, I understood.
We drove home, and I still don’t know what to do. Legally, there’s no contesting the deed—Mum’s sound of mind, well within her rights. But I can’t shake the thought that she chose a stranger over us. I’ve decided to call more, visit more, make sure Oliver knows her. Maybe, in time, she’ll see we’re her real family. And Sarah? I can only hope she truly cares. But this whole mess taught me one thing: you can’t put off the people who matter. Life’s too short to let them slip away.
