I happen to be sixty now, living alone in a perfectly decent flat in Manchester. Never had children, and theres no sign of a husband about the place, although once upon a time I was married rather shockingly, for love.
The marriage fell apart spectacularly when my husband brought his mistress to our home. I think youll agree, its a bit much. Naturally, I packed my bags and moved back in with my parents quicker than you can say “trouble”. Two months after the divorce, life decided to throw me a curveball: I discovered I was pregnant.
Honestly, I didnt fancy the idea of telling my ex. I never contacted him. I made up my mind to raise the child on my own. When my son arrived, the doctors handed me that dreaded phrase: Your childs health is poor, and, well, he has an incurable condition. Hell be lucky to see his twelfth birthday.
I hadnt a clue what to do or where to turn. I nurtured my boy every day, but there was always that grim thought in my mind: my child wouldnt be around for long.
Against all odds, my son lived until he was fifteen. As lifes cruel coincidences go, he and my father passed away within one week of each other. Losing those two left me rather shattered.
Dad, bless him, had left me his flat not just spacious but slap bang in the centre of Manchester. Id been living solo all these years, never quite drawn to men again. The idea of another child crossed my mind, but the fear of history repeating itself made it seem reckless. By forty-five, I got myself a laptop, mostly out of curiosity to keep in touch with distant relatives and catch up on the news.
And then it began: the relatives discovered my singleton status and started popping round constantly, armed with small gifts and clunky keepsakes. Conversation often turned to the big question: Have you made a will yet? If I hadnt, theyd suddenly launch a tragic monologue about their finances. Some even tried buttering up other relations in my presence, hoping to look more deserving.
Truth be told, I know exactly wholl get the flat. Theres my good friends daughter whos always helped me never once for her own gain.
The rest of the family, well, Im quite certain they only care about the Manchester flat. I stopped reaching out, but it hasnt deterred them.
One day, my cousin rang me up with breathtaking cheek and asked if I was still alive and who would inherit the flat. That was the final straw. I blocked every last one of them phone, email, the lot. Id rather spend the day talking to the cat than entertain such nonsense.
