I have two sons, three grandchildren, two daughters-in-law… yet I live as if I were alone. For years, I believed I’d raised sons who would one day be my support. But things turned out differently. Since my husband passed, five years have gone by—and not once have either of them crossed my threshold. Not a call, not a letter, not a visit. Then I mentioned aloud that I planned to leave my flat to my niece. Suddenly, they appeared as if summoned.
I brought two boys into the world and thought myself blessed—sons, after all, are meant to stay close to their mother. I trusted they wouldn’t abandon me in my old age. My husband and I did our best—raised them with love, gave them an education, helped them stand on their own feet. While their father lived, they visited occasionally. But once we buried him, it was as if I’d ceased to exist.
They live in the same city, just forty minutes away by bus. Both married, with families of their own. I have two grandsons and a granddaughter I’ve never even met. After a fall, I struggle to walk, yet reaching them by phone is impossible—always too busy, dismissing my calls, promising to ring back but never doing so. I’ve learned their promises mean nothing.
When the neighbours upstairs flooded my flat, I rang my eldest—no answer. The younger one promised to come but never did. All I needed was someone to touch up the water stain on the ceiling. In the end, I hired a handyman. It wasn’t the money—it was the fact my own sons couldn’t spare an hour for their mother.
When my old fridge broke, I called both again. “Just come with me to the shop,” I begged. “I’m afraid I’ll be swindled.” They told me, “Mum, don’t worry, the salespeople will help.” So I went with my brother and his daughter—my niece.
Then the pandemic struck. Suddenly, they remembered they had a mother. Monthly calls began—”Don’t go out,” “Order groceries online,” “Be careful.” But I didn’t know how. My niece showed me, teaching me to use shopping apps, bringing medicine, sitting with me when I fell ill. Every evening, she’d call: “Auntie Grace, how are you today?” We grew closer than I’d ever been with my own children.
I started spending holidays with my brother and his family. My niece’s little girl calls me Grandma. And one day, it struck me—I may have sons, but my niece is the one who’s truly family. She asks for nothing. She’s simply there, caring, helping.
So I decided: if my sons forgot they had a mother, my flat would go to the one who stood by me when I needed it most. I drew up the will in my niece’s name—she knew nothing of it. I just wanted to do right by the person who’d done right by me.
But word must have slipped out. That same day, my eldest rang, voice tight, words sharp: “Is it true you’re leaving the flat to someone else?” When I confirmed it, he shouted, “You’ve lost your mind! How could you? It’s family property!” I hung up.
That evening, the doorbell rang. Both sons stood there—with cake, with my granddaughter, all smiles. Then came the lecture: “You can’t do this,” “She’ll throw you out,” “We’re your children,” “You’re giving it to an outsider.” I listened in silence. Then I said, “Thank you for your concern. But my mind’s made up.”
They left, slamming the door, warning that signing the papers meant no more help—and I’d never see my grandchildren again. But dearest boys, I’ve seen nothing from you for years but indifference. You came after five years—only when you stood to lose the flat, not me.
I don’t regret it. If my niece turns ungrateful and casts me out, so be it. But I don’t believe she will. She’s kind, honest, true. And you? Live with your consciences—if you’ve any left.
The lesson is clear: blood may bind, but it’s kindness that truly ties hearts together.
