My name is Margaret Hargreaves, and I’m sixty-nine years old. I have two sons, three grandsons, and two daughters-in-law. With such a family, you’d think I’d be drowning in care and attention. But these last few years, I’ve lived as if I were an orphan—alone in my own flat in Birmingham, with a bad knee and a phone that sits silent for weeks on end.
After my husband passed, everything fell apart. While he was alive, the boys visited now and then—holidays, errands, the odd Sunday roast. But the moment we buried him, it was like the wind swept them all away. Five years. Five long, hollow years without so much as a visit. And they live right here in the same city—clear across town, yes, but it’s only forty minutes on the bus.
I never scolded them. Just called. Asked for help. When the neighbours upstairs flooded my kitchen—not badly, but enough to peel the ceiling—I rang both of them. Both promised to come by the weekend. Neither showed. In the end, I had to hire a decorator. It wasn’t about the money, though. It was the sting of realising that the boys I’d raised couldn’t spare an hour for their own mother.
Then the old fridge gave out. I don’t know the first thing about appliances, and I was afraid some salesman in Currys would swindle me. So I called my sons again. “Mum, they’ve got advisors there—you’ll manage.” In the end, I phoned my brother—he sent his daughter, my niece Emily, and her husband. They sorted everything, chose a new one, arranged the delivery.
When the pandemic hit, my sons suddenly remembered I existed. Oh, they rang once a month—mostly to lecture me on staying indoors and ordering my shopping online. But they forgot one thing: I didn’t have a clue how. Emily, though? She sat me down, showed me how to use Tesco’s website, set up my first delivery, even left me a list of pharmacies that delivered. And she started calling—almost every day.
At first, I felt guilty. Emily had her own parents, her own home, a husband and a little girl. But she was the only one who came by without reason. Brought soup, fetched my prescriptions, helped me clean. Once, she turned up just to sit with me and have a cuppa. Her daughter—my great-niece—calls me Nana. It had been years since I’d heard that word.
And so I made up my mind. If my own sons had forgotten me, if they only cared about what they could take, not give—then my flat would go to the one who’d stood by me in action, not just words. I went to the solicitor’s office to discuss my will. And wouldn’t you know it? That very day, my eldest rang. Asked where I was and why.
I told him the truth.
That’s when the shouting started. The swearing, the accusations. “Have you lost your mind?!” “That’s our inheritance!” “She’ll toss you out the second you sign!”
That evening, they came. Both of them. For the first time in five years. Brought a granddaughter I’d never met. Bought a cake. Sat at my table. For a moment, I hoped—maybe they’d changed? But no. They pleaded, insisted I had no right to leave my home to an “outsider.” Accused Emily of greed, spun doom-laden tales of eviction.
I watched them, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. Where were you all this time? Why didn’t you call when I needed help? Why only now, when you smelled money?
I thanked them for their concern. Told them my decision was final. They left in a huff, slamming the door behind them. Their last words? A promise I’d never see my grandsons again—nor get so much as a favour from them.
Truth is, I’m not afraid. Not because I don’t care. But because I’ve nothing left to lose. I’ve lived like a ghost in my own life for years. Now it’s just written in ink.
And Emily? If she ever does what my sons accuse her of—well, then I was wrong. But my heart tells me I’m not. She never asked for a thing. Not money, not the flat. Just came when I needed someone. Just stood by me. Just acted like family ought to.
And that—that means more than blood ever could.
