Alright, so heres the story, all adapted for Englandnames, places, everything.
Im Margaret Whitmore, sixty-nine years old. Ive got two sons, three grandkids, and two daughters-in-law. With a family like that, youd think Id be surrounded by love and care, wouldnt you? But these past few years, Ive been living like I dont exist. Alone in my flat, with a dodgy knee and a phone that never rings for weeks.
After my husband passed, everything changed. Back when he was alive, my boys would visit now and thenholidays, the odd errand. But the minute he was buried? Gone. Five years. Five long years without seeing them, even though they live in the same city, barely forty minutes by bus.
I never nagged them. I just called when I needed help. Like when the neighbours upstairs flooded my kitchennot badly, but the ceiling was ruined. I phoned both my sons. They promised to come that weekend. Neither showed. Had to hire a painter myself. Its not the moneyits the hurt. The hurt of realising your kids cant spare an hour for their own mum.
Then my fridge packed up. I dont know the first thing about appliances, and I was terrified of being ripped off. Called my sons again”Mum, just find a shop, sort it out.” In the end, I rang my brother, and he sent his daughter, my niece Emily, with her husband. They fixed everything.
When the pandemic hit, my boys suddenly remembered I existed. Theyd call once a month, telling me to stay inside and order groceries online. But they forgot one thingI didnt know how. Emily, though? She showed me how to order, set up the first delivery, even left me a list of pharmacies that delivered. She started calling me nearly every day.
At first, I felt guilty. Emilys got her own parents, her own life, her husband and little girl. But she was the only one who dropped by for no reason. Brought me soup, picked up my meds, helped me tidy, even washed my windows. One day, she came over just for tea and a chat. Her little girl calls me “nanna.” That wordI hadnt heard it in years.
So I made a decision: if my own kids have forgotten me, if theyre only interested in what they can take, not what they can give, then my flats going to the one whos actually here. I went to the solicitors to make a will. And wouldnt you know itthat same day, my eldest son called. Wanted to know where Id been.
I told him the truth.
Well, that started it. Shouting, insults, accusations. “Have you lost the plot?” “Thats our inheritance!” “Shell kick you out the second you sign!”
That evening, they both turned up. First time in five years. Brought a granddaughter Id never met. Brought a cake. We sat at the table. I hopedmaybe theyve changed? But no. They tried to talk me out of it, reminded me I had children, said I couldnt just give my flat to an “outsider.” Accused Emily of scheming, said shed throw me out.
I just stared at them. Where were you all this time? Why didnt you help when I needed it? Why only call when you smelled your inheritance slipping away?
I thanked them for their concern. Told them my mind was made up. They left slamming the door, swearing Id never see my grandkids again, that I shouldnt expect anything more from them.
You know what? Im not scared. Not because I dont care. But because Ive got nothing left to loseIve been living like a ghost for years. Now its just official.
And Emily? If she ever does what my sons think she willwell, I was wrong. But my gut says no. She never asked for anything. Not money, not the flat. She was just there. She reached out. She acted like a decent human being.
And that? That means more to me than blood ever could.
