**Diary Entry – 5th October**
My name is Margaret Whitmore, and I’m sixty-nine. I have two sons, three grandsons, and two daughters-in-law. With a family this size, you’d think I’d be drowning in love and attention. Yet these past few years, I’ve felt more like a ghost—alone in my flat, with a bad knee and a phone that stays silent for weeks on end.
After my husband passed, everything fell apart. While he was alive, my sons visited occasionally—holidays, errands, the usual. But once we buried him, it was like they vanished. Five years. Five long, empty years without so much as a visit. And they live in the same city—just forty minutes by bus.
I never scolded them. Just called. Asked for help. When the neighbours’ leak ruined my kitchen ceiling—not badly, but enough to need fixing—I rang both sons. Both promised to come that weekend. Neither turned up. I had to hire a plasterer. It wasn’t about the money—it was the sting of knowing my own children couldn’t spare an hour for me.
Then my fridge gave out. I’ve never understood appliances, worried shops would swindle me. Again, I called my sons. “Mum, they’ve got sales assistants—you’ll manage.” In the end, I rang my brother, who sent his daughter—my niece, Emily—and her husband. They sorted it all out for me.
When the pandemic hit, my sons remembered I existed. Once a month, they’d ring to remind me to stay home and order groceries online. But they forgot one thing—I didn’t know how. Emily, though, showed me, set up my first delivery, left a list of pharmacies that delivered, and started calling almost every day.
At first, I felt guilty. Emily has her parents, her own home, a husband, a little girl. But she was the only one who dropped by without reason—bringing soup, medicine, helping me clean, even washing the windows. Once, she came just for tea and a chat. Her daughter—my great-niece—calls me Nana. It’s been years since I last heard that word.
So I made a decision. If my own children had forgotten me, if they only cared about what they could take rather than give—then my flat would go to the one who showed up. I went to the solicitor’s office to ask about changing my will. And wouldn’t you know it? That same day, my eldest rang to ask where I was going.
I told him the truth.
Then came the shouting. The swearing. The accusations. “Have you lost your mind?!” “That’s our inheritance!” “She’ll kick you out the second you sign!”
That evening, they showed up. Both of them. First time in five years. Brought the granddaughter I’d never met. Brought a cake. Sat at my table. For a moment, I hoped—maybe they’d realised? No. They begged, reminding me I had *real* family, that I couldn’t give my home to an outsider. They called Emily greedy, spun wild tales about her throwing me out.
I stared at them, stunned. Where were you when I needed help? Why only care when you sniffed out money?
I thanked them for their concern. Told them my decision was final. They left, slamming the door, vowing I’d never see my grandsons again—as if that were some punishment.
Truth is, I’m not afraid. Not because I don’t care, but because I’ve had nothing left to lose for years. Only now, it’s official.
As for Emily… If she ever betrays me like my sons claim, well—I’ll have been wrong. But my gut tells me I’m not. She never asked for a thing. No money, no flat. Just showed up. Just stood by me. Just acted human.
And that matters more than blood ever could.
