My name is Margaret Spencer, and I am sixty-nine years old. I have two sons, three grandsons, and two daughters-in-law. With such a family, one might think I’d be surrounded by love and care. Yet these past years, I’ve lived as though I were utterly alone—trapped in my own flat, with a bad knee and a telephone that stays silent for weeks on end.
After my husband passed, everything fell apart. While he was alive, the boys would visit now and then—for holidays, or when they had business nearby. But once we laid him to rest, it was as if the wind had carried them away. Five years. Five long, empty years without so much as a glimpse of my own children. And they live in the same city—just forty minutes by coach, if they could be bothered.
I never scolded them. I only called. Asked for help. When the neighbours flooded my kitchen—not badly, but enough to ruin the ceiling—I rang both sons. Both promised to come by the weekend. Neither bothered. In the end, I had to hire a painter. It wasn’t about the money—it was the sting of knowing my own flesh and blood couldn’t spare an hour for me.
Then the refrigerator gave out. I’ve no clue about such things, and feared some shopkeeper might swindle me. Again, I turned to my sons: “Mum, there are advisers—you’ll manage.” So I called my brother instead, and he sent his daughter—my niece, Emily—with her husband. They sorted it all out.
When the pandemic struck, my sons suddenly remembered I existed. Though their calls were sparse—once a month, to lecture me on staying indoors and ordering groceries online. But they forgot one thing: I hadn’t the faintest idea how. Emily, though, showed me the ropes, arranged the first delivery, left me a list of pharmacies that delivered, and began ringing nearly every day.
At first, I felt guilty. After all, Emily had her own parents, her own home, a husband, a daughter. Yet she was the only one who visited without reason—bringing soup, medicine, helping me tidy, even washing the windows. One day, she came just to share a pot of tea and sit beside me. Her little girl—my great-niece—calls me “Grandmum.” 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 rather than give—then my flat would go to the one who stood by me in deed, not just in word. I went to the solicitor’s to inquire about 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.
What followed was a storm—shouting, curses, accusations. “Have you lost your mind?” “That’s our inheritance!” “She’ll toss you out the moment you sign!”
That evening, they came. Both of them. For the first time in five years. They brought a granddaughter I’d never met. A cake, too. Sat at my table. For a moment, I hoped—perhaps they’d come to their senses? But no. They pleaded, reminded me I had children of my own, insisted I’d no right to leave my flat to an outsider. They painted Emily as a schemer, spun dire warnings that she’d evict me the first chance she got.
I looked at them and wondered—where were you all those years? Why only now, when the scent of inheritance was in the air?
I thanked them for their concern. Told them my mind was made up. They rose, slammed the door on their way out, vowing I’d never see my grandsons again, nor receive another scrap of help from them.
Truth be told, I’m not afraid. Not because I don’t care—but because I’ve nothing left to lose. I’ve lived as though I mattered to no one for years. Now, at least, it’s official.
As for Emily… If she ever treats me as my sons claim she will—well, then I was wrong. But my heart whispers I’m not. She’s asked for nothing. No money, no flat. Only been here. Only offered her shoulder. Only been human.
And that, to me, is worth more than any bond of blood.
