My sons hadn’t visited me in five long years—until they learned I planned to leave my flat to my niece. Suddenly, they came running.
I had two sons, three grandchildren, two daughters-in-law… yet I lived as though I were alone. For years, I believed I’d raised boys who would one day stand by me. But life had other plans. Since my husband passed, not once had either stepped into my home. No calls, no letters, no visits. Then I declared aloud that my flat would go to my niece—and there they were, as if summoned.
I had borne two boys and been joyful, for surely sons remained close to their mothers. I trusted that in my twilight years, I wouldn’t be left to fend for myself. My husband and I worked hard, raised them with love, gave them an education, steadied them as they found their feet. While their father lived, they visited now and then. But once we buried him, it was as if I’d vanished from their minds.
They live in the same city—forty minutes away by bus. Both married, each with families of their own. I have grandsons and a granddaughter I’ve never once held. After a fall, I struggled to walk, yet ringing them brought no comfort—always too busy, cutting me short, promising to call back, then silence. I grew used to their empty words.
When the neighbours flooded my flat, I rang the elder—no answer. The younger vowed to come but never did. All I’d wanted was help painting over the water stain. In the end, I paid a handyman. The cost wasn’t the pain—it was their unwillingness to spare an hour for their own mother.
When my old fridge broke, I called them both. “Just come with me to the shops,” I pleaded, “I don’t trust the salesmen.” They brushed me off: “Don’t fret, Mum, they’ll guide you.” So it was my brother and niece who took me instead.
Then came the pandemic—and with it, their sudden remembrance of me. Monthly calls, warnings—”Stay indoors,” “Order groceries,” “Be careful.” But I’d no idea how. My niece showed me. She taught me to use the delivery apps, brought medicine, sat with me when I fell ill. Every evening, her voice: “Aunt Ellen, how are you?” She became dearer than my own flesh and blood.
I spent holidays with my brother’s family. My niece’s little one calls me Gran. And at last, the truth settled—blood or not, it was my niece who’d been my true kin. She asked for nothing. Just stood by. Cared.
So I made my choice: if my sons forgot they had a mother, my flat would go to the one who hadn’t. I drew up the will in secret—my niece knew nothing. I meant only to repay kindness.
Yet tongues wagged. That same day, my eldest rang, voice tight, words sharp. “Is it true?” he demanded. “You’re giving the flat away?” When I said yes, he shouted, “Have you lost your mind? That’s family property!” I hung up.
By evening, they stood at my door—both sons, with cake, the granddaughter in tow, all smiles. Then the pleas began: “You mustn’t,” “She’ll turn you out,” “We’re your children,” “Why give it to an outsider?” I let them speak. Then quietly, I said, “Thank you for your concern. But my mind’s made up.”
They left in a fury, slamming the door behind them, swearing if I signed the papers, I’d never see help—or my grandchildren—again. But dearest ones, I’d seen nothing from you for years but neglect. You came only when you stood to lose—not me, but bricks and mortar.
I don’t regret it. If my niece proves ungrateful, so be it. But I doubt she will. She’s good, honest, real. As for you… well, live with your consciences. If you’ve any left.
