My son, James Thompson, and his wife, Poppy Clarke, handed me a flat the moment I clocked out for goodold retirement.
That morning they turned up at my little terraced house in Brighton, handed me a brass keyring, and whisked me off to a solicitors office. I was so thrilled I could barely get a word out, so I whispered, Why are you giving me such an extravagant present? I dont need all this!
James grinned, Its a retirement bonus, Mum. Well let the tenants move in!
At that point I hadnt even touched my State Pension yet Id just been made redundant from my clerical job and was still figuring out how the whole thing works. Yet theyd already arranged everything without me. I tried to decline, but they told me not to make a fuss.
My relationship with Poppy has never been a smooth road: sometimes its calm, then out of the blue a storm erupts. I was the cause of the squall, and she was too. We spent years learning not to argue, not to fight, and, thank heavens, weve been getting along peacefully for a few years now.
When my sisterinlaw, Aunt June, heard about the gift, she rang me straight away, showered me with congratulations and then bragged, Well, I must have raised a decent daughterinlaw if she wasnt opposed to such a gift! She added that she herself would never accept a flat like that and would give it up for her own grandchild.
At halfpast midnight I lay awake wondering if I could manage on a single pension, since I didnt need much. At dawn I called my grandson, Harry, and gently probed whether hed mind if I set him up with a place of his own. Harry is about to turn sixteen, heading off to university, and has a girlfriend he cant take back to his parents house.
Grandma, dont worry! he replied. Ill earn my own keep!
Everyone turned down the flat. I offered it to Poppy, to Harry, even to James.
It reminded me of a story my older sister, Rose, once told. Her sisterinlaw lost her house and had to move into council accommodation, clutching the tiny room like a drowning man clutching a straw.
Our Uncle Nigel vanished fifteen years ago, and his heirs are still bickering, unable to split his estate without a fight.
I once saw a documentary about how my own parents, Arthur and Eleanor, left their house to James, who then evicted them, sold the place, and left them on the street.
I wept not quite sure if it was gratitude, pride, or a bit of both. After a visit to the pension office I learned my State Pension was £2,000 a month, and then James rented my new flat for £3,000 a month. Thats when I truly appreciated my childrens gift: it was nothing short of regal.
