My name is Margaret Whitmore, and Im sixty-nine years old. I have two sons, three grandchildren, and two daughters-in-law. With such a family, youd think Id be surrounded by love and care. But these past few years, Ive lived like an orphan. Alone in my flat, with a bad knee and a phone that stays silent for weeks.
After my husband passed, everything changed. While he was alive, my sons visited occasionallyfor holidays or errands. But the moment he was buried, they vanished. Five years. Five long years without seeing them, even though they live in the same city, just forty minutes away by bus.
I never blamed them. I simply called. Asked for help. When the neighbours flooded my kitchennot much, but the ceiling was damagedI phoned both my sons. They promised to come that weekend. No one showed. I had to hire a decorator. It wasnt the money that hurtit was the ache of knowing my children couldnt spare an hour for their own mother.
Then my old fridge broke down. I know nothing about appliances; I was afraid of being scammed. 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, and her husband. They sorted everything.
When the pandemic hit, my sons suddenly remembered me. They called once a month, telling me to stay home and order groceries online. But they forgot one thing: I didnt know how. Emily, though, showed me how to order, arranged the first delivery, left me a list of pharmacies that delivered, and started ringing me nearly every day.
At first, I felt guilty. Emily had her own parents, her home, her husband, her daughter. But she was the only one who dropped by for no reason. She brought soup, medicine, helped me tidy, cleaned the windows. One day, she came just to share a cup of tea and sit with me. Her little girlmy great-niececalls me “Nana.” That wordI hadnt heard it in years.
So I made a decision. If my own children have forgotten me, if they only care about what they can take rather than what they can give, then my flat will go to the one whos truly there. I went to the solicitors office to make a will. And that very day, as if by magic, my eldest son called. He wanted to know where Id been.
I told him the truth.
Then it began. Shouting, insults, accusations. “Have you lost your mind?” “Thats our inheritance!” “Shell throw you out the moment you sign!”
That same evening, they came. Both of them. For the first time in five years. They brought a granddaughter Id never met. They brought a cake. We sat at the table. I hopedmaybe 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, warned me shed kick me out.
I watched them, stunned. Where were you all this time? Why didnt you help when I needed it? Why call only when you sensed the inheritance slipping away?
I thanked them for their concern. And I said my mind was made up. They left, slamming the door, swearing 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 Ive nothing left to loseIve lived like a ghost for years. Now its just official.
And Emily? If one day she does what my sons imagine, well, Ill have been wrong. But my heart says otherwise. She never asked for anythingno money, no flat. She was just there. She reached out. She behaved like a decent human being.
And that, to me, means more than any blood tie.
