We decided to leave our children without an inheritance. Let it be a lesson for them.
Margaret and I always tried to be good parents—not tyrants, not moralists, just people they could rely on. We raised our son and daughter with love and patience. Our home was built on trust: we never snooped through their phones, monitored their every move, shouted, or belittled them. Every issue was settled calmly over the dinner table, with words, not anger. I believed that was how children ought to be raised—with respect. But now I see it differently. They mistook our kindness for weakness.
Perhaps we should have been stricter. More watchful. But they were family… When it comes to family, you see them through the lens of love, not truth. We didn’t notice how cold, callous, and calculating they had become. We simply refused to believe it. A mistake, that.
One day, I fell ill and stayed home. Our daughter, Emily, didn’t know—she was seventeen at the time. She came in with a friend and went straight to the kitchen. They opened a bottle of wine, and soon their conversation turned into something I’d never forget.
At first, it was just idle chatter. Then I heard:
*”James and I took money from Dad’s wallet again. He didn’t even notice. They’re so clueless—never suspect a thing…”*
I froze. My chest tightened. This was my little girl, the one who called me *Daddy*, hugged me, smiled at me—now speaking of me as if I were nothing. She sneered, laughed, mocked Margaret and me. And suddenly, I knew—this wasn’t just one careless chat. It was a reflection of what we’d really raised.
I stepped into the kitchen. The friend saw me first and fell silent. Emily kept talking until she heard my footsteps. When she turned, her face went pale—the look of a thief caught red-handed. Our eyes met. Neither of us spoke. I took a bottle of water from the fridge and left.
That evening, I put a lock on our bedroom door. When Margaret came home, I told her everything, softening it where I could. She cried. Then she admitted she’d felt them slipping away for a long time but hoped it was just a phase.
Of course, they soon realised something was wrong. They tried charm—*Mummy, Daddy*, sudden helpfulness, false affection. But we weren’t fooled. In a few months, the masks fell. Coldness. Indifference. Closed doors. They stopped pretending.
When James turned eighteen, Margaret and I made a choice. We sold our large flat, bought the children a modest two-bedroom place—but kept it in our name. For ourselves, we bought a half-built cottage in the countryside, finished it within a year. We began living for *us*. And the children? They forgot us.
Not a call, not a visit. Only when they needed money—*Can you help?* That was all. We saw the truth now: no warmth, only calculation.
So we made our final decision. There would be no will. The house, the land, the savings—all would go to charity. Better to help those who truly need it than those who only see obligation.
Perhaps one day they’ll understand. Perhaps they’ll realise parents aren’t ATMs. That trust isn’t weakness. That love doesn’t mean turning a blind eye to betrayal.
For now, we live quietly. At peace. Knowing we did the right thing.
