Why Should It Matter Who Cared for Grandma? Legally, That Flat Should Be Mine! – My Own Mother Is Fighting Me Over Grandma’s Home My own mother is threatening to take me to court. Why? Because grandma’s flat didn’t go to her, or even to me—it went straight to my daughter. My mum says it’s shockingly unfair. She believes the flat should have been hers. But my grandmother had other plans. Most likely because my husband and I lived with her and cared for her for the last five years of her life. My mum could easily be described as self-centred. Her wants and interests always seemed to matter far more to her than anyone else’s. She’s been married three times, but only had two children: me and my younger sister. My sister and I get on brilliantly, but our relationship with our mum is… complicated. I don’t even remember my father. He divorced my mum when I was just two. Until I turned six, I lived with Mum at Grandma’s place. For some reason, child-me thought Grandma was rather harsh—probably because Mum seemed to cry all the time. It wasn’t until years later, as an adult, that I realised Grandma was truly good at heart; she just wanted to help her daughter find her way. Later, Mum remarried, and the two of us moved in with my stepdad. That marriage brought my little sister into the world. Mum stayed married to him for seven years, but—once again—she got divorced. This time, instead of going back to Grandma’s, we stayed in my ex-stepdad’s flat, with his permission, until Mum married again three years later and we moved in with her new husband. He clearly wasn’t thrilled about his new wife’s children, but, to be fair, he never hurt us—he simply ignored us. Mum barely seemed to notice us, either. She was utterly absorbed in her new marriage, often jealous, even dramatic—smashing crockery to make her point. Roughly once a month, Mum would pack our bags, but our stepdad always got her to stay. My sister and I got used to it, barely reacting anymore. I took over caring for my sister; our mum was too busy. Thank goodness for our grandmothers, who really did their best to help. When I went off to uni, I moved into halls, and my sister moved in with Grandma. Our dad always did what he could for her. Mum? She only rang us at Christmas. I came to accept Mum as she is; I learnt not to expect her to worry about us. My sister, however, never really did—she harboured a lot of resentment. She was especially hurt when Mum didn’t come to her school-leaving do. We grew up. My sister got married and moved to another city. My boyfriend and I, while together a long time, weren’t in any rush to wed. We rented a flat and often visited Grandma, who I’d grown very close to. I tried not to be any bother to her. Then Grandma fell ill and ended up in hospital. The nurses said she’d need proper home care, so I started going round every day—shopping, cooking, cleaning up, chatting with her, and most importantly, making sure she took her medication. That went on for six months. Sometimes my boyfriend came with me—always fixing things, tidying up. Eventually, Grandma suggested we move in full-time; we could save for our own place instead of wasting money on rent. We jumped at the chance. Grandma adored my boyfriend and I loved being there for her. Six months later, I got pregnant. We happily decided to have the baby; Grandma was overjoyed to know she’d be a great-grandmother. We got married quietly, with a small celebration at a café with family. My mum didn’t even come—not a phone call, not a card. When my daughter was two months old, Grandma broke her leg. Suddenly I was caring for a newborn and a bedridden elderly lady. I desperately needed my mum’s help, so I rang her, but she refused—said she didn’t feel well and would come later. She never did. Six months later, Grandma suffered a stroke and became completely bedridden. The care was exhausting. Without my husband’s support, I don’t know what I’d have done. Over time, Grandma rallied—she could walk, eat, and talk again. She managed another two and a half years. She got to see her great-granddaughter take her first steps. When she passed away, peacefully in her sleep, it left my husband and me heartbroken—we loved her deeply, and we miss her so much. Mum only showed up for the funeral. A month later, she tried to evict me and claim Grandma’s flat for herself. She was certain it should be hers. What Mum didn’t realise was that Grandma had transferred ownership right after I gave birth to my daughter. So Mum got nothing. She was furious. She demanded I give her the flat, threatening court if I refused. — “Just look at her! You tricked the old lady, took her home, and now you’re living in it! Don’t think you’ll get away with this! It doesn’t matter who looked after Grandma—her flat should be mine!” But my mum will never get the flat. I’ve spoken to a solicitor and a notary, and everything’s perfectly legal. We’ll stay right here, in the home Grandma left us. And if we have another little girl, I’ll name her after my beloved grandmother.

What difference does it make who cared for Gran? By right, the flat should be mine! my mother argued with me, her words sharp as ever.

Looking back now, it’s hard to forget the day my own mother threatened me with court. And all over Gran’s flat. It hadnt landed in her lap, nor even mine, but had gone instead to my daughter. Mother believed it an outrageous injustice. She insisted Gran’s flat rightly belonged to her. But my grandmother thought otherwise. Possibly because my husband and I had lived with her for the last five years, offering her company and care.

Calling my mother selfish doesnt feel unkind. All her life, her wants came first, miles ahead of anyone elses. She married three times, though only had two childrenmyself and my younger sister. My sister and I always got along well, but our relationship with our mother was never close.

I have no memories of my father. He left when I was just a toddler, barely two. Until I was six, Mother and I lived in Grans snug London terraced house. For reasons I couldnt untangle as a child, I thought Gran was a stern woman. Maybe it was because Mother always seemed in tears. It wasnt until I grew older that I understood Gran was simply trying to guide her daughter along the right path.

Next, Mother remarried. We moved in with my stepfather, and my sister was born into that marriage. Seven years later, another divorce. This time, we didnt return to Gran. My stepfather went off for work, letting us stay in his Kent flat for now. Three years later, Mother wed again, and we all moved in with her new husband.

He was none too pleased to find his wife saddled with children. Still, he never did us harmhe just paid us no mind. Mother herself gave us even less attention, far too absorbed with her marriage, jealous fits, and rows that ended in shattered crockery.

Once a month, Mother would begin packing her things, ready to leave, but my stepfather always managed to talk her round. My sister and I stopped noticing after a time. I took charge of my sisters upbringingMother simply didnt bother. Thank heavens for our grandmothers; they were our true support. I went off to university halls, and my sister moved in with Gran. Our father helped her when he could. Mother rang us only at Christmastime.

I accepted my mother as she wasdistant, untroubled. My sister did not; her hurt ran deep, especially when Mother failed to appear at her school-leavers celebration.

As we grew up, my sister married and moved north with her husband. Meanwhile, my longstanding boyfriend and I shared a rented flat in Reading, never rushing to wed. I visited Gran often. We were close, but I always tried not to burden her.

Then Gran fell ill and went into hospital. The nurses told me shed need proper care on discharge. So I began visiting dailybringing groceries, cooking, cleaning, or just sitting and having a natter. Most importantly, I made sure she took her medicines on time.

That became my daily routine for six months. Sometimes my boyfriend joined me, always lending a handfixing what needed fixing, keeping the flat in order. One day, Gran suggested we move inafter all, it would help us save for a place of our own, instead of wasting pounds on rent.

We eagerly agreed. Gran was dear to me, and she adored my boyfriend. We settled in, and before long, I discovered I was expecting. We decided right away to have the baby. Gran was thrilled at the thought of a great-grandchild. We didnt want fuss, just a quiet registry office wedding and tea with close friends. Mother didnt comenot even a congratulatory phone call.

Two months after our daughter was born, Gran fell and broke her leg. Caring for both her and a tiny baby exhausted me. I desperately needed my mothers help. When I rang, she refused, claiming she felt poorly and would come later. She never came.

Six months on, Gran had a stroke. She was bedridden, needing full-time care. Those were hard days; without my husbands help, I would have been lost. Miraculously, Gran improvedshe began to speak and walk, little by little, and could feed herself again. She lived another two and a half years after the stroke, delighting in her great-granddaughters toddling steps. Gran passed away peacefully in her sleep. For my husband and me, her death was a devastating blow. We both loved her deeply and miss her terribly still.

Mother appeared only for the funeral. A month later, she returnednot to mourn, but to evict me and claim the flat as her own. She was certain it would be hers. What she did not know was that Gran had left the flat to my daughter, just after she was born. Mother received nothing.

Outraged, she demanded I hand over the flat or face a lawsuit.
“Just look at youcunning as ever! You tricked the old dear out of her own flat and now squat here yourself. Youll pay for this! It makes no odds who actually cared for Gran. That property should have been mine!”

But it is clear Mother will get nothing. I saw to itI consulted both a notary and a solicitor. We shall live in the home Gran gave us. And if our next child is a girl, she will bear Grans name, to honour the woman who truly showed us the meaning of love and family.