When I turned sixty-nine, I finally received a payment I’d been waiting for most of my life. My money. Hard earned, saved over the years, the sort of cash anyone would treasure as dearly as their eyesight. Id made plans for it: to fix the roof on my old house in Oxford, put aside savings for leaner days, maybe even treat myself to a bit of happiness after a lifetime of work.
But all it took was for my family to catch wind of it. My nephew, Oliver, appeared at my doorstepcharming as ever, with that easy grin and soft words. He spun tales of a guaranteed business venture, a golden opportunity, saying he only needed a small push to really take off. He spoke so earnestly, so convincingly, that I truly believed him.
I still hear him promising hed return every last penny within six monthsplus interestswearing it was a safe, quick thing, nothing like those dodgy schemes that fail. Thinking I was helping him, and telling myself Id get something out of it too, I handed him the money. No paperwork. No signatures. Just his word.
Hes my nephew, I told myself. He wont let me down. Even at my age, you hope your family has integrity. How naive I was.
Six months slipped bynothing. He rang to say the business was going well, that I needed to be just a bit more patient. By month eight, hed stopped answering my calls. By the tenth, people in the village whispered about his reckless spendingliving it up as if he didnt owe a soul.
The next time I confronted him, he took offence. Spoke sharply, accused me of not trusting him, of putting pressure on him, and making him look bad in front of others. It hit me thensomething was wrong. Still, I hung onto hope that hed come to his senses.
But the worst didnt come from him. It came from my own brothers.
They took his side.
Stop harassing him.
The money will come back.
Hes doing his best.
Soon came the insinuationsthat I was tight-fisted, that what do I need so much for, at my age, that it was too much to obsess over a sum like that. Then silence. They just stopped speaking to me. Me, almost seventy, made out to be a criminal simply for wanting what was rightfully mine.
One day, I confronted Oliver directly. No sidestepping, no pleasantries. He turned aggressive. Told me I was hounding him. Threatened that if I kept pressing for the money, hed never set foot in my house again. As if that was meant to shatter me.
I looked at him, remembering every time Id opened my door to him, every time Id defended him when others called him reckless. And here he waswithout a shred of shamefurious at me for asking for what was mine.
Three years. Its been three years.
People say I should just let it gothat at my age, itd be better to have a quiet life. Others tell me not to back downbecause the moment you fall silent, they start trampling you all the more.
Im caught in between. No signature, no document. Just his wordthe word he smashed without a glimmer of remorse.
Now, whenever I ask for my money, the family gets angry. They look at me as if Im the villain, the nightmare haunting their peace.
But the truth is simple:
I never asked for anything that wasnt mine.
All I want is what I earned.
