I am Eloise Whitaker, and I am sixty-nine years old. I have two sons, three grandchildren, and two daughters-in-law. With such a family, one might think I am surrounded by warmth and care. Yet these past years, I have lived like an orphanalone in my flat, with an aching knee and a telephone that stays silent for weeks.
When my husband passed, everything changed. While he was alive, my sons visited occasionally, for holidays or errands. But the moment he was laid to rest, they vanished. Five years. Five long years without seeing them, though they live in the same city, barely forty minutes away by bus.
I never scolded them. I simply rang them up when I needed help. When the neighbours flooded my kitchennot badly, but the ceiling was damagedI called both my sons. They promised to come by the weekend. No one showed. In the end, I hired a painter. It wasnt the money that stung, but the hurt. The hurt of realising my children couldnt spare an hour for their mother.
Later, my old refrigerator gave out. I know nothing about appliances and feared being swindled. I rang my sons again. *”Mum, there are shopssort it out yourself.”* In the end, I called my brother, who sent his daughter, my niece Emily, with her husband. They sorted everything.
When the pandemic struck, my sons suddenly remembered me. They rang once a month, telling me to stay indoors and order groceries online. But they forgot one thingI didnt know how. Emily, though, showed me how to place an order, 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 has her own parents, her home, her husband, her little girl. But she was the only one who visited without reason. She brought soup, medicines, helped me tidy, washed the windows. One day, she came just to share a pot of tea and sit with me. Her little girlmy great-niececalls me *”Gran.”* I hadnt heard that word in years.
So I made a decision: if my own children have forgotten me, if they care only for what they can take rather than what they can give, then my flat will go to the one who has truly been here. I went to the solicitors office to write my will. And that very day, as if by fate, my eldest son rang. He wanted to know where Id been.
I told him the truth.
Then it beganshouting, insults, accusations. *”Have you lost your mind?” “Thats our inheritance!” “Shell 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 Id never met. They brought a pie. We sat at the table. I hopedperhaps theyd changed? But no. They tried to persuade me, reminding me I had children, that I couldnt leave my flat to an *outsider.* They accused Emily of scheming, swore shed throw me out.
I listened, stunned. Where were you all this time? Why didnt you help when I needed you? Why ring only when you sensed your inheritance slipping away?
I thanked them for their concern. And I told them my mind was made. They left, slamming the door, vowing Id never see my grandchildren again and shouldnt count on them for anything.
You know, Im not afraid. Not because I dont care. But because I have nothing left to loseIve lived so long as though I were invisible to them. Now its just official.
And Emily If one day she does what my sons imaginewell, Ill have been wrong. But my heart says otherwise. Shes never asked for a thing. Not money, not the flat. She was just there. She reached out. She acted like a decent human being.
And that, to me, means more than blood ever could.
