I’ve got two sons, three grandsons, two daughters-in-law… and yet I live like an orphan. For years, I believed I’d raised boys who’d one day be my support. But it turned out differently. It’s been five years since my husband passed—not once in all that time did either of them step foot in my home. Not a call, not a letter, not a visit. Then I said it aloud: I’m leaving the flat to my niece. And suddenly, like clockwork, they appeared.
I brought two boys into this world and was overjoyed—sons, they say, are always closer to their mothers. I thought I’d never be alone in my old age. My husband and I worked hard, raised them with love, gave them an education, helped them stand on their own feet. While their father was alive, they’d visit now and then. But the moment we buried him, it was as if I ceased to exist.
They live in the same city—forty minutes by bus. Both married, with families of their own. I’ve got grandsons and a granddaughter I’ve never once held. After a fall, I struggle to walk, but ringing them is hopeless—always busy, brushing me off, promising to call back, but never doing it. I’ve learned their promises are empty.
When the neighbours flooded my flat, I rang my eldest—no answer. Rang the youngest—he swore he’d come, but never did. All I needed was someone to paint over the water stain on the ceiling. Ended up hiring a handyman. It wasn’t the money that stung—it was knowing my own sons couldn’t spare an hour for their mother.
When the fridge gave out, I called them both. Just come with me to the shop, I asked—I’m afraid I’ll be swindled. “Mum, don’t worry,” they said, “the salesman will sort you out.” In the end, my brother and his daughter—my niece—went with me instead.
Then the pandemic hit. Suddenly, they remembered they had a mother. Called once a month with warnings—”don’t go out,” “order groceries online,” “be careful.” Only I didn’t know how. My niece showed me. She taught me to use the shopping app, brought my medicine, sat with me when I was ill. Called every evening without fail: “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 hit me: I may have sons, but my niece is the one who’s truly family. She asks for nothing. Just shows up. Cares. Helps.
So I decided: if my sons forgot they had a mother, the flat would go to the one who stood by me when it mattered. I drew up the will in my niece’s name. She didn’t know. I just wanted to do right by the person who’d done right by me.
But word must’ve got out. The same day, my eldest rang—voice tight, words sharp. Was it true, he demanded, that I was signing the flat over to someone else? When I said yes, he shouted, “Have you lost your mind? That’s family property!” I hung up.
That evening, the doorbell rang. Both sons. With a cake. With my granddaughter. All smiles. Then came the lecture—”You can’t do this,” “She’ll throw you out,” “We’re your blood,” “And you’re giving it to an outsider?” I let them have their say. Then I simply replied, “Thanks for the concern. But my mind’s made up.”
They left, slamming the door. Said if I signed the papers, I could forget about their help—and I’d never see the grandkids again. Funny—I hadn’t seen much of them anyway, apart from indifference. Five years of silence, and now you turn up? Not for me. For the flat.
I’ve no regrets. If my niece turns ungrateful and boots me out—well, that’s life. But I don’t believe she will. She’s kind. Decent. Real. And you? Now you’ll have to live with yourselves. Assuming you’ve anything left to live with.
