The children call me every day now, but I know it’s not out of care—it’s about the inheritance.
Margaret Whitmore stands by the window, gazing absently at the damp winter garden outside. Her flat is quiet, save for the steady ticking of the clock. Long retired, her thoughts drift often to her grown children—two daughters and a son. Today is her birthday. Will they visit? Or at least remember to call? If she’s honest with herself, Margaret has long stopped hoping.
*Thirty years ago, my husband left me with three small children to raise alone,* she thinks bitterly. *He couldn’t bear the responsibility—the crying, the mess, the endless bills. I was only thirty, the older ones just starting school, the youngest still in nappies. I had to feed them, clothe them, teach them…*
But Margaret didn’t break. She worked any job she could—cleaner, shop assistant, childminder—just to keep them afloat. There was no time for herself, only the desperate hope that her children would never feel left behind.
Now, looking back, she wonders if she made a mistake, putting money before warmth. They needed more than full bellies and new shoes. They needed a mother—one who read them stories, who had soft words instead of tired sighs.
No one had helped her in those hard years. Her husband walked away as though wiping them from his life. *His choice,* she thinks now, without bitterness. *Everyone finds their own path.*
The children grew, built their own lives, started families. She was left alone. Her pension is modest, but Margaret had always saved—for weddings, for houses, for future grandchildren.
Yet now, in her older years, she has her savings, her flat, and an aching emptiness. No one to talk to.
A week ago, a sharp pain in her chest sent her to hospital. The doctors delivered news that filled her with dread—serious illness, uncertain outcomes.
The staff rang her children. And then—a miracle—all three rushed to her bedside at once.
The woman in the next bed even sighed with envy. *”You’re so lucky. Such devoted children—hardly leaving your side!”*
Margaret only smiled faintly. She knew them too well to be fooled.
After her discharge, the daily calls began.
*”Mum, how are you feeling?”
“Mum, do you need anything?”
“Mum, have you thought about the will? It’s best to sort these things early.”*
It sounded like concern, but their words were stiff, rehearsed. No real fear—the kind you can’t fake. Margaret knows the truth: this isn’t about love. It’s about the money. Her two-bedroom flat in a good part of town. The tidy savings she’d scraped together for them, year after year.
Her heart aches. *Was it all for nothing?*
Lately, she’s been thinking more than ever. She watches the neighbours’ lights flicker on through the darkness and realises her old age isn’t what she imagined. She’d dreamed of evenings by the fireside, reading to grandchildren, hosting family for the holidays. Instead, there’s only silence—and timed phone calls laced with greed.
An idea gnaws at her, unsettling but clear. *What if I leave it all to charity?* The flat might go to Irene next door—the woman who’s spent years popping in with groceries, dusting her shelves, asking, *”How are you today, love?”* without a single hidden motive.
She hasn’t decided yet. But Margaret knows this much: love can’t be bought—not with gifts, not with flats, not with a lifetime’s savings. Either it’s there, or it isn’t.
Life comes just once. So does old age.
And if she must spend hers alone, then at least her last actions will be true—not out of duty to those who forgot her when she needed warmth most of all.
