**The Dispute Over Gran’s Inheritance**
When my gran, Margaret Thompson, passed away, leaving me her flat and a small savings, I, Emily, felt both sorrow and relief. It was her final gift—proof she’d always cared. But before I could even grieve, my mother, Victoria Harris, who I hadn’t seen in twenty years, reappeared out of nowhere. She found me and coldly announced, “Em, we ought to sell everything Gran left and split the money.” I was stunned. The woman who’d abandoned me as a child now wanted a cut of my inheritance? This wasn’t just about money—it was an old wound she’d decided to rip open.
I’m 32, married to James, with a life of our own. Gran raised me from the age of ten after Mum vanished—claiming she was off to “find a better life.” Not a call, not a letter, no concern if I was even alive. Margaret became everything to me: mother, father, friend. She worked two jobs so I could study, baked me pies, taught me to knit. Her flat, a modest two-bed with floral wallpaper, was my sanctuary. Now, with her gone, it’s the last tangible piece of her I have.
Mum turned up a month after the funeral. No idea how she tracked me down. She rang as if no time had passed: “Em, heard about Gran’s will. Let’s meet and talk.” Talk? I foolishly hoped she wanted to reconcile, to apologise for two decades of silence. But over tea at a café, she cut straight to it: “Sell the flat and divide the cash. I’m her daughter too—I’m entitled.” Entitled? I nearly choked. She left us, never helped Gran with a penny, and now demanded half?
I kept my voice steady: “Mum, you weren’t there. Gran raised me alone. Why d’you think you have a right?” She looked wounded. “Em, I’m your mother! I’ve suffered too—life hasn’t been easy.” Not easy? Meanwhile, Gran sobbed at night because she couldn’t afford my prom shoes, while Victoria was off “building her future.” I said, “Gran left it all to me. Her choice.” She didn’t back down: “If we can’t agree, I’ll take it to court.”
Court? That word shattered me. Twenty years of nothing, now she’d sue for Gran’s flat? I left the café, tears burning. James was livid when I told him: “Em, she’s got no claim. It’s yours, full stop.” But I couldn’t shake the guilt. Was I being cruel? Should I share? Then I’d remember Gran’s hands, her smile, her saying, “This is your home, love.” And I knew—I wouldn’t betray that. Not for money, but for her memory. As for Mum? She’ll live with her choices, same as I will.
**Lesson:** Blood doesn’t make family—love does. And some wounds never fully heal; you just learn to carry them.
