In my twilight years, my children suddenly remembered: they had a mother. Yet I cant ever forget the way they treated me.
When my husband left me for a younger woman, the children took his sideafter all, he was a respected factory manager, a man with a reputation. For years, they gave me not a thought, while I was left absolutely alone. Only after my ex-husband passed away did anyone discover he had left everything to his young wife.
It was then, quite suddenly, that the children remembered I existed. Now they pop round rather often, but I see right through it Just the other day, my daughter began to hint: Mum, have you thought about the future? About a will? Not a one of them suspects the surprise I have in store. Theyll all find out soon enough, after Im gone.
Years passed and I felt as though I had faded to a distant corner of the world. My children grew to see me as a stranger, as if we spoke different tongues altogether.
The divorce from my husband finally shattered whatever bond we might have had. They stood by himwho wouldnt, when he was such a distinguished figure, a man of standing in the town, the talk of Bristol or Manchester? Being in his world was simply more advantageous. And me? I was left, abandoned as a wife, deserted as a mother.
The children quickly let me slip from their minds. Now and then, through old friends, tales would waft back to me: how they partied and dined with their father and his new bride, jaunted off to Spain or the south of France, sipped wine in upmarket bistros, planned their glossy new futures.
And me, I sat alone in my flat in Leeds, empty rooms echoing around me. Every new scrap of news jagged at my heart like broken glass.
One day I realised: I must start living for myself. I took a job abroad, packing my bags and fleeing the grey drizzle for bustling places. For the first time in years, I tasted freedom.
By the end of my work, I had saved enough to reinvent my life. When I came home, I refurbished my place, bought new furniture, all the gadgets I fancied, and put away a decent sum for my old age.
In the meantime, my children settled into their own lives. From afar, I heard of their weddings, new babies, merrymakingit sounded lively and grand. Then, out of the blue, word reached me: my ex had died of a heart attack. Every last penny he had went straight to his new wife.
My son and daughter inherited nothing. Their resentment quietly curdled into a sudden, sunlit warmth for me.
At first, little tokens appearedboxes of sweets, baskets of apples, polite questions about my health. I welcomed them with a smile, but inside, I knewthey all had their reasons.
Now that Ive turned seventy-two, Im hale, merry, content in my own skin. Yet not long ago, my daughter began dropping hints: perhaps, Mum, its time to think about your will. A few weeks later, my granddaughterwhod just married last summercame for tea.
Granny, isnt it lonely in a place this big? she asked, eyes wide and innocent as spring.
No, love, Im comfortable here, I replied.
But its such a large flat, she said sweetly. Must be hard to keep tidy. Why dont my husband and I move in? Wed keep you company, and save ourselves from paying rent.
I smiled. Their angle was so obvious it practically wore a neon sign.
Who says you wouldnt have to pay? I answered, level as a pond. But Id offer you a good deal.
She blinked, unsure. She must have expected an open invitation: Take it all, Id be delighted! But I had something else in mind.
Years ago, Id already sorted my will: my flat will be sold, with every penny going to a charity for sick children after Im gone.
When my daughter found out, she stormed round, fury in her voice: how could I? Didnt I want the best for my own grandchildren? Then came my son, gentle and smoothhed gladly let me live with him, if Id only sign things his way. Their sudden gush of affection left me unmoved.
If you were me, would you let your granddaughter move in?
