**Diary Entry**
I need to share a story from my family—one that still weighs heavily on me. The one at the heart of it is my cousin, Emily. She’s kind, hardworking, and generous, and for the last twelve years, without fail, she visited her grandmother, Margaret Whitmore, every single day after work. She cleaned, brought groceries, scrubbed the windows, polished the stove till it gleamed, hand-washed the bedsheets, listened to her grandmother’s complaints, even massaged her legs when they swelled up. And she never once complained. All because, when Emily was younger, it was Margaret who raised her—her own mother too busy with her younger brother and her career.
To Emily, Margaret was the one constant in her life. She taught her how to make the perfect roast, took her to the theatre when her mother couldn’t, helped with homework, and always knew the right words when schoolmates were cruel. Emily grew up, got a job at a bank, had a son, and still, her grandmother remained her anchor. So when Margaret’s health began to fail—her blood pressure unstable, her memory slipping—it was Emily who stepped up. Without being asked. She took care of the bills, the prescriptions, the insulin injections. Meanwhile, Margaret’s own daughter—Emily’s mother—had a flat of her own, a steady job, a car. Yet in twelve years, she never once brought over a warm bowl of soup or even a jar of preserves.
Then Emily lost her job. Laid off without warning. Savings ran dry, and she knew she wouldn’t qualify for a mortgage. For the first time, she gathered the courage to ask for something, hands shaking. That Saturday, she did her usual—cleaned, hung the laundry, brewed Margaret’s chamomile tea. Then she sat beside her and said, as calmly as she could:
*”Gran, I’m not asking for anything now. But… maybe one day, could the flat be passed to me? I just—I don’t want to raise my son in rented rooms. You know how much I love you.”*
The reply cut like ice.
*”No, Emily. The flat goes to my daughter—your mother. That’s how it should be. After that, she can do as she pleases.”*
Emily couldn’t speak. Her throat tightened, her head rang. It was as if all those years of care—the scrubbed floors, the homemade meals—meant nothing.
She left in tears. Didn’t even say goodbye. Days have passed, and she still hasn’t gone back. She sits at home, staring blankly, asking me:
*”I never asked for anything before. Didn’t I earn it? Is it wrong to want security for my son? Why would Gran, who loved me, think I had an ulterior motive?”*
I don’t know what to say. I’ve known Margaret my whole life. She’s stern, set in her ways. To her, the proper order is sacred. No matter who cares for you—property passes by bloodline, to the child. Anything else, she says, is *”just duty, not a transaction.”*
But is love measured by blood? Shouldn’t gratitude go to the one who showed up? Who gave without being asked?
Now Emily doesn’t know how to face her. She won’t pretend nothing happened, but she won’t hurt her either. Her heart aches. She feels betrayed.
I’m not taking sides. But I think sometimes the elderly are just afraid. Afraid to admit the one closest isn’t their child but their grandchild. Afraid a single signature could unravel the family. Afraid of change. Maybe Margaret is just protecting herself.
As for Emily? She still makes soup. But now it’s just for her son. And she teaches him to be grateful. Because ingratitude cuts deeper than any blade.
