When the grandmother learned that her grandson was planning to evict her, she sold the flat without looking back.
Why take out a loan when you can simply wait for Grandma to pass away and inherit her home? That was the logic whispered by my husbands cousin, Théo. His wife, Élodie, and their three children spent their days dreaming of the day the apartment would belong to them. They shunned credit, preferring instead to count on the future inheritance. In the meantime, they cramped into Élodies mothers tiny tworoom apartment in Nice on the French Riviera, a situation that seemed to suffocate them. Théo and Élodie whispered more and more often about how to settle the matter with Grandma.
But Grandma, Édith, was a genuine treasure. At seventyfive she radiated energy, lived life to the fullest, and remained in perfect health. Her flat in the heart of Nice was always open to friends. She handled her smartphone with ease, attended exhibitions, went to theatre performances, and even indulged in a few flirtations at seniors dance balls. She exuded vitality, a daily example of joy. To Théo and Élodie, however, she was a source of irritationthey were fed up with waiting.
Their patience finally snapped. They decided that Édith should hand over the apartment to Théo and move into a retirement home. They made no secret of their plan, claiming that Grandma would be better off there. Édith, however, was not the type to be pushed around. She flatly refused, and that denial ignited the powder keg. Théo erupted in a furious tirade, shouting that she was selfish and should think about her childrens future. Élodie fanned the flames, insinuating that Grandma had lived long enough.
My husband and I were horrified and learned the whole story. Édith had always dreamed of traveling to Indiato see the Taj Mahal, smell the spices, wander the streets of Delhi. We offered her to move in with us and rent out her flat to fund the trip. She agreed, and soon her spacious threeroom city centre flat generated a tidy income. When Théo and Élodie found out, they launched a massive scandal. They claimed the apartment rightfully belonged to them and demanded that Grandma move in with them. They even accused my husband, Serge, of manipulating Édith for the inheritance. Théo went as far as demanding the rental money, calling it his legitimate share. We replied that such a claim would never be accepted, period.
Élodie began visiting us almost dailysometimes alone, sometimes with the children, sometimes bearing absurd little gifts. She asked after Grandmas health, but we saw her true motive: she and Théo still hoped Édith would pass away soon and leave everything to them. Their greed and audacity stunned us.
Meanwhile, Édith saved enough money and set off for India. She returned glowing, with a suitcase full of stories and photographs. We suggested she go further: sell the apartment, travel more, and then spend her later years with us in comfort. She thought it over and decided to do so. Her large flat sold for a good price, and with the proceeds she bought a cozy little studio on the outskirts of Nice. The remainder funded new adventures.
Édith toured Spain, Austria and Switzerland. During a trip to Lake Geneva she met a Frenchman named Jean. Their romance was cinematic; at seventyfive she married him. Serge and I flew to France for the wedding, which was magicalwatching her radiant in a white dress, surrounded by flowers and smiles. Édith deserved that happiness after a lifetime of work, raising children, and helping grandchildren. Finally, she lived for herself.
When Théo learned the apartment had been sold, he flew into a black rage. He demanded that Grandma hand over the studio, insisting shes had enough. How he planned to house five people there remained a mystery. But it no longer concerned us. We were delighted that Édith had found her joy. As for Théo and Élodie, their saga reminds us that money can sometimes reveal the true faces of those closest to us.
