*”Couldn’t take care of her own mother, but has the energy to drag me to court!”*
When I was a little girl, my world revolved around my nan. She was the one who raised me, taught me about life, kissed my scraped knees when I fell, and held me close when my mum vanished yet again chasing “her own happiness.” Mum was always off somewhere—with one bloke, then another—never sparing a thought or an ounce of effort for me. She’d turn up like a guest, stay a day or two, mutter a few empty words with that distant look in her eyes, then disappear again.
But Nan… Nan was everything. She was my mother, my friend, my rock. She gave me all she had—her time, her love, her last quid. Even after I grew up and left for uni in another city, she remained the person closest to my heart. Then, as luck would have it, life took a cruel turn—Nan fell seriously ill and needed constant care. I dropped out of uni and came home. Money was tight, so I asked Mum for help. But every time, it was the same sob story:
“I can barely stand on my own two feet… My blood pressure, my heart, my joints… You’ve no idea how hard it is for me. I might end up disabled!”
Day after day, listening to this, I’d wonder: why even say it if you’ve no intention of lifting a finger? One evening, Nan saw the confusion on my face and said quietly,
“She’s laying the groundwork for an alibi. So no one can accuse her later of abandoning her mother. See, she’s ‘too ill’ to help.”
And sure enough, Mum never missed a chance to play up her “poor health.” But the second Nan transferred the flat into my name—and passed away a couple of years later—something miraculous happened. Suddenly, Mum found her strength, forgot all her “aches,” and raced to court. Claiming I’d taken advantage of Nan, that she’d been “out of her mind,” so the will and deed had to be voided. And the drama began! Paperwork, lawsuits, hearings… I couldn’t believe she had the stamina—just weeks ago, she could “barely walk,” yet now she’s dashing between solicitors’ offices for hours on end.
The more I saw, the more it stunned me—the sheer spite and greed in her. Where was this energy when Nan needed help? Where was this drive when I, a twenty-year-old girl, was struggling to care for a bedridden woman with no money and no support? Back then, all she did was weep down the phone about how awful *she* felt. Now? She’s full of life, sharp as a tack, spinning yarns to anyone who’ll listen about how *her* poor mother was “robbed,” how *she* was cheated, betrayed, left penniless.
Not once did she sit at Nan’s bedside. Not a single night did she keep watch. Not one prescription did she pay for. That was all on me. Only I knew how Nan suffered, how she gritted her teeth in pain, how she faded in and out, how she whispered for water in the dark. Only I held her hand as it grew cold, listened to her last breath, wept by her pillow…
When Nan signed the flat over to me, she looked me in the eye and said,
“I don’t want your mother getting a single penny. You were here—only you. This is yours. You’ve earned it.”
I don’t want revenge. I don’t want a war. But I won’t let anyone, not even my own mother, trample over the wishes of the woman who gave me everything. I have to fight—not for the flat, but for Nan’s memory. For love. For what’s right.
Let Mum file her lawsuits, spin her tales to the neighbours, play the tragic heroine. I know the truth. And as long as I’ve got a voice, I won’t let her silence it.
