**Diary Entry**
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 felt like an orphanalone in my flat, with an aching knee and a phone that stays silent for weeks.
Everything changed after my husband passed. While he was alive, my sons visited occasionally, for 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, barely forty minutes away by bus.
I never complained. I simply calledfor help. When the neighbours flooded my kitchen (not badly, but the ceiling was damaged), I phoned both sons. They promised to come that weekend. No one showed. I had to hire a painter. It wasnt about the money; it was the hurt. The hurt of realising my own children couldnt spare an hour for their mother.
Then my old refrigerator gave out. I know nothing about appliances and was afraid of being swindled. I called my sons again”Mum, just find a seller; sort it out yourself.” In the end, I rang 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 theyd forgotten one thing: I didnt know how. Emily, thoughshe showed me how to place orders, arranged the first delivery, left me a list of pharmacies that delivered, and started calling nearly every day.
At first, I felt guilty. Emily has her own parents, her home, her husband, her little girl. Yet she was the only one who visited without reason. She brought soup, medicine, helped me tidy, washed the windows. Once, she came just for tea and to sit with me. Her daughtermy 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 give, then my flat will go to the one whos truly been there. I went to the solicitors office to make a will. And that day, as if by magic, my eldest son called. He wanted to know where Id been.
I told him the truth.
Then it started. Shouting, insults, accusations. “Have you lost your mind?” “Thats our inheritance!” “Shell throw 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 hopedmaybe theyd reconsider? But no. They tried to convince me, to remind me I had children, that I couldnt give my flat to an outsider. They accused Emily of scheming, warned me shed toss me out.
I stared at them, stunned. Where have you been all this time? Why didnt you help when I needed you? Why only call when you sensed the inheritance slipping away?
I thanked them for their concern. And I said my decision was final. They left slamming the door, swearing Id never see my grandchildren again and shouldnt expect their help.
You know, Im not afraid. Not because I dont care. But because Ive nothing left to loseIve lived as if I mattered to no one for so long. Now its just official.
And Emily If one day she does what my sons fear, 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 acted like a decent human being.
And that, to me, means more than blood ever could.
