My name is Margaret Wilkins, and I’m sixty-nine. I’ve got two sons, three grandchildren, and two daughters-in-law. With a family like that, you’d think I’d be swimming in care and attention. But these last few years, I’ve felt more like an orphan—stuck in my own flat with a dodgy knee and a phone that hasn’t rung in weeks.
After my husband passed, everything went downhill. While he was alive, the boys would visit now and then—holidays, odd errands. But the moment we buried him, they vanished into thin air. Five years. Five long, lonely years without so much as a glance from my own children. And they live in the same city! The other side of town, sure, but it’s just a 40-minute bus ride.
I never nagged. 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 swing by on the weekend. Neither showed. Ended up hiring a painter. Not about the money—it’s the principle. The boys I raised couldn’t spare an hour for their own mum.
Then my fridge gave up the ghost. Clueless about appliances, I worried I’d get swindled at the shop. Called the boys again—”Mum, they’ve got consultants there, you’ll manage.” Had to ring my brother instead—he sent his daughter, my niece Emily, and her husband. They sorted everything.
When the pandemic hit, my sons remembered I existed. Called once a month to lecture me on staying home and ordering groceries online. Small problem—I hadn’t the foggiest how. Emily, though? She set me up, placed my first order, left a list of pharmacies that delivered, and started calling nearly every day.
At first, I felt awkward. Emily’s got her own parents, her own life—husband, little girl. But she was the only one who dropped by just because. Brought soup, pills, helped clean, even did the windows. Once, she came just for tea and a chat. Her daughter—my great-niece—calls me Granny. First time I’d heard that word in years.
So I made a decision. If my own flesh and blood forgot me, if they only cared about what they could take, not give—then the flat’s going to whoever’s actually there. I went to Citizens Advice to sort the will. Of course, that’s the day my eldest rang. Asked where I was headed.
I told him.
Well. The shouting started. The swearing, the accusations. “Have you lost the plot?!” “That’s our inheritance!” “She’ll boot you out the second you sign!”
That evening, they turned up. Both of them. First time in five years. Brought a granddaughter I’d never met. A cake, even. Sat down. Hoped, for a second, they’d had a change of heart. But no. Lectured me on blood ties, how I couldn’t leave the flat to an “outsider.” Accused Emily of greed, spun wild tales about her tossing me out.
I just stared. Where were you all this time? Why only care when there’s something to lose?
I thanked them for their concern. Said my mind was made up. They left, slamming the door. Promised I’d never see the grandkids again, never get their help.
Funny thing? I’m not afraid. Not because I don’t care—but because I’ve got nothing left to lose. I’ve been alone for years. Now it’s just official.
As for Emily… if she ever does what my sons claim? Well, I misjudged her. But my gut says I didn’t. She never asked for a thing. No money, no flat. Just showed up. Just listened. Just acted human.
And that’s worth more than blood.
