Why Should It Matter Who Cared for Grandma? By Law, That Flat Should Be Mine! – My Mum Argues with Me Over Grandma’s Flat My own mother is threatening to sue me. Why? Because my grandma’s flat didn’t go to her—or even to me—but instead was left to my daughter. Mum thinks that’s unbelievably unfair. She believes Grandma’s flat should have been hers, but Grandma chose otherwise. Why? Probably because my husband and I lived with Grandma and cared for her for the last five years. You could easily call my mum completely self-absorbed. Her wishes and desires always seemed to come before anyone else’s. She was married three times but only ever had two children: me and my younger sister. My sister and I are very close, but our relationship with Mum has always been… strained. I barely even remember my dad. He and Mum divorced when I was just two. Until I was six, I lived with Mum at Grandma’s. For some reason, I thought Grandma was very harsh—maybe because Mum was always crying. It wasn’t until I was older that I realised Grandma was a good person, just trying her best to help her daughter stand on her own two feet. Mum later remarried, and I moved in with her and my stepdad. That marriage gave me my sister, and lasted seven years before ending in divorce too. This time, instead of moving back in with Grandma, we stayed in my stepdad’s flat while he worked away. Three years on, Mum married again and we moved in with her new husband. He clearly didn’t love the idea of instant stepkids, but he never hurt us—he just ignored us. Mum ignored us too, completely focused on her new man, always suspicious, always causing drama. Once a month, Mum would pack her things and threaten to leave, but her husband always talked her down. My sister and I just got used to it. I ended up raising my sister because Mum couldn’t be bothered. Lucky for us, our grandmothers helped. Later, I moved to university accommodation, and my sister moved in with Grandma. Our dad helped as much as he could. Mum only rang on holidays. I got used to Mum being absent and unconcerned about us. My sister, though, never forgave her—especially not when Mum skipped her school-leaving celebration. As adults, my sister married and moved to another city. My boyfriend and I, meanwhile, lived together for years before considering marriage, renting a flat together. I visited Grandma often—we were very close, though I always tried not to overstep. Then Grandma fell ill and was hospitalised. I started visiting daily: bringing groceries, cooking, cleaning, and above all, making sure she took her medication. Sometimes my boyfriend came to help—he’d fix things around the house, tidy up. That’s when Grandma suggested we move in to save for our own place, instead of wasting money on rent. Of course, we said yes. Grandma liked my boyfriend a lot. Six months later, I got pregnant. We decided to keep the baby, got married, and had a small celebration with family in a café. Mum didn’t show up—didn’t even call to congratulate us. When my daughter was two months old, Grandma fell and broke her leg. It was agonising juggling a baby and an invalid. Desperate, I called my mum for help. She refused, saying she didn’t feel well, promising to visit soon. She never did. Six months after that, Grandma suffered a stroke. She was bedridden for ages. Caring for her nearly broke me—thank goodness for my husband. Eventually, she improved: she could talk, eat, and even walk a bit. Grandma got a few more years to enjoy her great-granddaughter’s first steps, before passing away peacefully in her sleep. Losing her was devastating for me and my husband—we loved her deeply and still miss her every day. Mum only came to the funeral. A month later, she turned up to kick me out, certain that the flat belonged to her. But she didn’t know Grandma had signed it over just after my daughter was born. So Mum got nothing. Of course, she wasn’t happy. She demanded I hand over the flat—or she’d sue. “See how sneaky you are!” she yelled. “You cheated that old woman out of her home just so you could move in! You won’t get away with this! It doesn’t matter who cared for Grandma—that flat is rightfully mine!” But she’s not getting the flat, and I know that for sure: I’ve spoken to a solicitor and a notary. We’ll stay in the home Grandma gave us. And if we have another daughter, we’ll definitely name her after Grandma.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 6 minViews 1

What difference does it make who looked after Gran? By rights, the flat should be mine! my mother argues with me.

My own mother is threatening to take me to court. Why? Because my grandmothers flat hasnt gone to her, or even to me, but to my daughter. My mum thinks its horribly unfair. She believes the flat should have been hers. But Gran decided otherwise. Why? Likely because my husband and I moved in with her and took care of her for the past five years.

To be honest, my mum has always been a bit selfish. Her own wants and needs have always mattered more to her than anyone elses. Shes been married three times, but has only two daughters: me and my younger sister. I get on wonderfully with my sister. The same cant be said about our mum.

I dont even remember my father. He and Mum divorced when I was barely two. Until I was six, I lived with Mum at Grans flat in Manchester. For some reason, I thought my gran was really unkind. Maybe it was because my mum used to cry all the time. I only realised much later, when I was older, that Gran was actually a kind-hearted person. She just wanted Mum to stand on her own two feet.

Mum remarried after that, and we went to live with my stepdad. Thats when she had my sister. Mum stayed with him for seven years, then divorced again. This time, we didnt go back to Gran. My stepdad moved away for work, but let us stay in his flat for a while. Three years later, Mum remarried yet again, and we moved in with her new husband in Birmingham.

Of course, he wasnt thrilled to have stepchildren around, but he never hurt us. He simply ignored us. Mum ignored us, tooshe was completely wrapped up in her latest marriage and forever jealous, easily making a scene, smashing crockery over the slightest thing.

Once a month, Mum would start packing her bags, but her husband would always talk her out of leaving. My sister and I got so used to this drama that it became background noise. I ended up raising my sister on my own; Mum rarely had time for us. Luckily, we had our gran. She was always there to help. Then I went off to university and lived in halls, while my sister moved in with Gran. Dad always did his best to support her, but Mum would only ring at Christmas or Easter.

I came to accept Mum as she was. I simply stopped expecting too much of her. But my sister couldnt let it go. She was always deeply hurt by Mums neglect, especially when Mum didnt turn up to her school-leaving party.

We grew up. My sister got married and moved to Leeds with her husband. My boyfriend and Ithough wed been together for yearswerent rushing into marriage. We rented a flat together and often went to see Gran. We were very close, but I never wanted to be too much of a bother.

Then Gran fell ill and landed in hospital. The nurses told me shed need proper care. So I started visiting her every day, bringing groceries, preparing meals, tidying up, or just sitting down for a chat. Most importantly, I made sure she took her medication on time.

For six months, I did everything I could for her. Sometimes, my boyfriend came along and helped fix things around the flat or do some chores. Thats when Gran suggested we move in with her, so we could save for our own place and not waste money on rent.

Naturally, we agreed. Gran and I always got on brilliantly, and she was very fond of my boyfriend. We moved in. Six months later, I fell pregnant. We both knew we wanted to keep the baby, and Gran was over the moon to be expecting a great-grandchild. Instead of a big wedding, we had a simple ceremony and lunch with our families at a local café. Mum didnt even comeshe didnt even call to congratulate me.

When my daughter was only two months old, Gran tripped and broke her leg. It was tough, balancing care for both Gran and a newborn. I desperately needed Mums help, so I rang her and asked, but she refused. She said she was feeling unwell and would come laterbut she never did.

Six months later, Gran suffered a stroke. She was bedridden, and looking after her became almost impossible. Without my husbands support, I dont know how Id have managed. Eventually, Grans speech returned, and she started to walk and eat with help. She lived another two and a half years after the stroke and got to watch her great-granddaughter toddle about. Gran passed away peacefully in her sleep. For my husband and me, losing her was heart-breaking. We both loved her dearly and miss her every day.

Mum only turned up for the funeral. A month later, she showed up on our doorstep, ready to throw us out and claim the flat for herself. She was absolutely certain it would be hers. What she didnt know was that, straight after my daughter was born, Gran had changed her will, leaving the flat to my little girl. Thats why Mum got nothing.

Obviously, she was livid. She demanded I turn over the flat to her, or else shed take us to court.
Look at her! she accused. You tricked that poor old woman, snatched the flat out from under her, and now youre living in it yourself! Youre not getting away with this! It doesnt matter who looked after Gran! By rights, the flat should be mine!

But Mum isnt getting anything. I know that for sureIve spoken to both a solicitor and the familys notary. Were staying right here, in the flat Gran left us. And if our next child is a girl, well definitely name her after my grandmother.

How My Husband Secretly Supported His Mother While I Had Nothing to Dress Our Child In My husband and I don’t live in luxury – we do our best to make ends meet. We both have jobs, though neither pays much; I’d even call our incomes modest. We also have a four-year-old daughter. Anyone raising a child these days knows how expensive it is, and surviving on a tight budget isn’t easy at all. To make matters worse, my husband decided to help his mother out by paying her rent. We’re barely scraping by ourselves, yet he still sends money to his mum. She’s in perfect health and could get a part-time job if she wanted to. I’d happily work more, but with a small child someone needs to look after her after nursery. I’ve asked my mother-in-law countless times to babysit, but she always refuses, claiming she isn’t well enough. She says her health is too fragile. Then I found out she’d gone on holiday, and not a cheap one either. My husband only told me afterwards, saying that while she was away, he needed me to travel across the city to take care of her plants. I was beyond shocked. I could have spent that time earning extra money elsewhere, not tending to her flowers. But what truly stunned me was something else. Recently, my mother-in-law has started living a posh lifestyle. Expensive accessories, boutique dresses—she always seems to have something new. I kept wondering where she was getting the money. My husband always made such a fuss about his poor mother not being able to pay her rent, yet here we are. Could she have found a well-off gentleman friend to support her? One day I noticed my husband hauling around the same extraordinarily heavy bag. When he went to the bathroom, curiosity got the better of me and I peeked inside—there was a bunch of tech equipment, including a laptop that used to belong to my friend. The next day at work, my friend mentioned that my husband had done some repairs for her—turns out, he’s earning extra cash repairing electronics. So that’s where the money is coming from! When I confronted him and asked if he was giving all of his side hustle income to his mother, he admitted it. “So my daughter and I have nothing to wear, we’re darning socks just to get by, while you’re sending your mum on spa breaks and buying her designer clothes?” “They’re my earnings. I can spend them however I like.” Needless to say, I sent him away to stay with his mum, since he cares for her so much. Isn’t that only fair?

The Manor Smelled of French Perfume—and Lovelessness. Little Lizzie Knew Only One Pair of Warm Hands: Her Nanny Nora’s. But One Day Money Vanished from the Safe, and Those Hands Disappeared Forever. Twenty Years Later, Lizzie Stands on a Doorstep—Child in Her Arms, and the Truth Burning in Her Throat… *** The Scent of Dough Was the Smell of Home. Not the home with its marble staircase and the glittering chandelier that hung three storeys, where Lizzie grew up. No—her real home, the one she invented for herself, perched on a stool in a big country kitchen, watching Nora’s hands—red from the water—knead the springy dough. “Why is dough alive?” five-year-old Lizzie would ask. “Because it breathes,” Nora would answer, never stopping her work. “See those bubbles? It’s happy—it’s about to go into the oven. Strange, isn’t it? To be glad for the fire.” Lizzie didn’t understand then. Now she did. She stood on the verge of a rutted country lane, hugging four-year-old Mikey to her chest. The bus had gone, dropping them in the grey February dusk, and now there was only silence—the kind of deep, village silence where you can hear snow creak under a stranger’s steps three houses away. Mikey didn’t cry. He’d mostly stopped crying these past months—he’d learned. He simply stared up with eyes too somber for a child, and every time Lizzie shuddered: his father’s eyes; his father’s jaw; his father’s silence—the same silence that always hid something. Don’t think of him. Not now. “Mummy, I’m cold.” “I know, sweetheart. We’ll find it soon.” She didn’t know the address. Didn’t even know if Nora was alive—twenty years had passed, nearly a lifetime. All Lizzie remembered: “Pine Village, Kent.” And the scent of that dough. And the warmth of those hands—the only hands in that grand house to stroke her hair for no reason at all. The road led past sagging fences. Here and there, windows glowed—warm, yellow, alive. Lizzie stopped at the last cottage simply because her legs wouldn’t carry her further, and Mikey had grown heavy as lead. The gate creaked. Two snow-covered steps up the porch. An old wooden door, its paint flaking with age. She knocked. Silence. Then—slow, shuffling footsteps. The sound of a bolt being drawn. And a voice—husky, older, but as familiar as a lullaby, so much that Lizzie’s breath caught: “Who’s knocking this dark night?” The door swung open. A tiny old woman stood on the threshold, cardigan over her nightdress. Her face—wrinkled as a baked apple. But the eyes, those eyes—faded blue, undimmed, still alive. “Nora…” The old woman froze. Then, slowly, she raised a work-worn, knobbly-fingered hand and touched Lizzie’s cheek. “Heavens… Lizzie?” Lizzie’s knees buckled. She stood, clutching her son, unable to speak—only tears, scalding hot, ran down her frozen cheeks. Nora asked nothing. Not “where from?”, not “why?”, not “what happened?”. She just took her old coat from the nail by the door and draped it around Lizzie’s shoulders. Then she gently lifted Mikey—he didn’t flinch, only looked up with those dark eyes—and held him close. “There, love, you’re home at last,” Nora murmured. “Come in, sweetheart. Come in.”