Who cares who looked after Nana! my mother roared, pointing an accusing finger at me. The flat is legally mine!
My own mother was threatening me with a lawsuit. Why? Because the cottage my grandmother left wasnt hers, nor mine, but my daughters. Margaret Smith saw this as a monstrous injustice. She believed the property should have passed to her, yet my grandmother had decided otherwise. Why? Probably because my husband Tom and I had spent the last five years living with her, caring for her, and keeping her company.
Margaret could be summed up in one word: selfish. Her own desires always trumped anyone elses. Shed been married three times, but only had two children: me, Claire, and my younger sister, Poppy. Claire and I got on well, but the bond with Mum had frayed long ago.
I could barely remember my father. He walked out when I was two, after Margarets first divorce. Until I was six I lived with my mother at my grandmothers house in a sleepy suburb of Manchester. For some reason my grandmother seemed cold to me then I think it was because Mum was constantly weeping. It wasnt until I was an adult that I realised she was a good woman, simply wanting her daughter to stand on her own two feet.
When Margaret remarried, we moved in with my stepfather, Alan. That marriage produced my sister, Poppy. Alan and Mum lived together for seven years before she left him, this time without returning to my grandmothers home. Alan kept a modest flat for us while he worked, and three years later Margaret married again and we shifted to the new husbands house in Liverpool.
His reaction to discovering she already had children was muted; he never harmed us, he just ignored us. Our mother was equally absent, preoccupied with her new husband, constantly jealous, and prone to throwing broken china in fits of fury.
Once a month Margaret would start packing, but Alan always stopped her. Claire and I got used to it and stopped paying attention. I became the one looking after Poppy because Mum simply didnt have the time. We were lucky to have grandmothers on both sides; they helped us immensely. Eventually I moved into a council hostel while Poppy stayed with my grandmother. My fathers brother helped us out, and Mum only phoned during school holidays.
I grew to accept Mums neglect as normal. I was used to her never caring, never worrying. Poppy, however, took every slight to heart. She was especially hurt when Mum skipped her graduation ceremony.
Years passed. Poppy married and moved to a flat in Leeds with her husband. Tom and I werent in any rush to get married, even though wed been together for years. We shared a rented flat in Birmingham. I visited my grandmother often; we were close, but I tried not to intrude on her peace.
When Nana fell ill and was admitted to the Royal Infirmary, the doctors said she needed constant care. I began visiting daily, bringing groceries, cooking, tidying, or simply sitting and talking. I made sure she took her medication on time. For six months I was at her bedside, sometimes with Tom helping outfixing a leaky tap, clearing out the cupboard.
Then Nana suggested we move in with her to save on rent. Why pay a pound for a flat when you can live here and save the money? she said. Of course we said yes. The arrangement worked, and six months later I discovered I was pregnant. We decided to keep the baby, and Nanas eyes lit up at the thought of a greatgrandchild. We celebrated with a modest tea at the local café, surrounded by relatives. Mum didnt turn up, not even a phone call of congratulations.
Two months after our daughter, Lily, was born, Nana suffered a fall and cracked her hip. Juggling a newborn and caring for a brokenboneridden grandmother was beyond me. I begged Mum for help. She promised she would come, then never did.
Six months later Nana suffered a massive stroke and became bedridden. The strain was crushing. If Tom hadnt been there, I dont know how I would have survived. Slowly, Nana regained speech, could sit up, eat again. She lived another two and a half years, watching Lily take her first steps, before slipping away quietly in her sleep. The loss hit Tom and me like a tidal wave; we had loved her fiercely.
Mum only attended the funeral. A month later she turned up, intent on evicting us and claiming the flat for herself. She was convinced the property was hers by right. What she didnt know was that Nana had bequeathed the cottage to Lily the moment she was born, and the deed had been recorded at the local registry office in Manchester. Mums claim crumbled.
She stormed, Give me the flat or Ill sue!
How deceitful! Tom snarled. You robbed the old woman of her home, and now you think you can sit in it yourself! It doesnt matter who tended to Nana! That house belongs to Lily!
I had already spoken to a solicitor and a solicitornotary. We would stay in the flat Nana had gifted us, and if our second child turned out to be a girl, wed name her after her greatgrandmother. The battle was over; Mum would get nothing.
