The children call me every day now, but I sense it’s not about care—it’s about the inheritance.
Margaret Whitmore stood by the window, gazing absently at the grey winter garden. Her flat was silent, save for the lazy tick of the clock. Long retired, her thoughts kept circling back to her grown children—two daughters and a son. Today was her birthday. Would they visit? Or at least call? Though, if she were honest, Margaret had stopped hoping for much years ago.
“Thirty years ago, my husband left me with three little ones,” she mused bitterly. “He couldn’t bear the responsibility—the crying, the mess, the endless bills. I was only thirty. The older two had just started school, the youngest still in nappies. I had to feed them, clothe them, raise them…”
Margaret hadn’t broken. She took whatever work she could—cleaning, shopkeeping, babysitting—just to keep them afloat. There’d been no time for herself, only the desperate wish that her children would want for nothing.
Now, looking back, she wondered if it had been a mistake to chase money over warmth. The children needed more than full bellies and new shoes. They’d needed her—with a storybook in hand, a kind word on her lips.
There’d been no help in those hard years. Her husband had slipped away as if erasing them from his life. “His choice,” she thought now, without anger. “His path to walk.”
The children grew, built their own lives. Married, moved away. She was left alone. Her pension was modest, but Margaret had scrimped all her life—for them. Savings for weddings, flats, future grandchildren…
Now, all she had were those savings, her little house, and a hollow silence. No one left to even talk to.
A week ago, a sharp pain in her chest sent her to hospital. Tests revealed a grim truth: a serious condition, uncertain futures.
The nurses called her family. And then—a miracle. All three arrived nearly at once.
Her ward neighbour sighed enviously, “You’re so lucky. Such devoted children, never leaving your side…”
Margaret only smiled thinly. She knew them too well to be fooled.
After discharge, the calls began. Daily.
“Mum, how are you feeling?”
“Mum, need anything?”
“Mum, have you thought about the will? Just to avoid arguments later.”
It sounded like concern, but there was a stiffness to it. No real fear—the kind you can’t fake. Margaret knew: this wasn’t about missing her. It was about the money. Her tidy little house. The savings she’d bled for.
Her heart ached. Had it all come to this?
Lately, she’d been thinking more than ever. Staring at the darkened windows of neighbouring homes, she saw her old age wasn’t what she’d dreamed. She’d imagined evenings by the hearth, reading to grandchildren, holidays full of laughter… Instead—silence, and scheduled calls laced with greed.
A wild, terrible thought had taken root: leave it all to charity. The house, perhaps, to Eleanor next door—the one who’d checked in for years, brought groceries, dusted the shelves, asked “How are you, love?” with no ulterior motive.
She hadn’t decided yet. But Margaret understood now: love can’t be bought with flats or savings. It’s either there—or it isn’t.
Life is short. Old age, shorter still.
And if hers was to be spent alone, at least her last acts would be true—not dictated by duty to those who’d long forgotten her when she needed warmth most.
