My name is ÉlodieMarchand, Im sixtynine years old. I have two sons, three grandchildren and two daughtersinlaw. With a family that size one might think Im surrounded by love and attention. In reality, the past few years have left me feeling like an orphan, alone in my flat, nursing a sore knee while my phone remains silent for weeks.
After my husband passed away, everything changed. While he was alive my sons would visit occasionallyfor holidays or businessbut once he was buried they vanished. Five long years passed without seeing them, even though they live in the same city, only forty minutes away by bus.
I didnt blame them; I simply called for help. When a neighbors pipe burst and flooded my kitchenonly a little, but the ceiling was damagedI phoned my sons. They promised to come over the weekend, yet none showed up. I had to hire a painter. It wasnt the money that hurt me, but the realization that my children couldnt spare an hour for their mother.
Later my old refrigerator broke down completely. I know nothing about appliances and feared being ripped off. I called my sons againMom, there are salespeople, figure it out yourself. Finally I reached my brother, who sent his daughter, my niece Amélie, with her husband. They fixed everything.
When the pandemic hit, my sons suddenly remembered me. They called once a month, urging me to stay home and order groceries online. They forgot one crucial detail: I didnt know how. Amélie taught me how to place an order, arranged the first delivery, gave me a list of pharmacies that deliver, and began calling almost daily.
At first I felt guilty. After all, Amélie has her own parents, a house, a husband and a daughter. Yet she was the only one who showed up without any reason. She brought me soup, medication, helped tidy up, washed the windows, and one day simply sat with me for tea. Her little girlmy greatgranddaughterstarted calling me mamie, a word I hadnt heard in years.
I then made a decision: if my own children had forgotten me, caring only about what they could take rather than what they could give, I would leave my flat to the person who truly stood by me. I went to the social services office to draft a will. That same day, by chance, my eldest son called to ask where I was going.
I told him the truth.
What followed was a torrent of shouting, insults and accusations: Are you out of your mind?, Its our inheritance!, Shell be kicked out as soon as you sign! That very evening both sons arrivedfirst time in five yearsbringing a granddaughter I had never seen, a pie, and sitting down at the table. I hoped perhaps they might change their minds. They did not. They tried to persuade me, reminding me I still had children, that I had no right to give my apartment to a stranger. They accused Amélie of scheming and warned that she would soon throw me out.
I stared at them, incredulous. Where had you been all this time? Why didnt you help when I needed it? Why call only when the inheritance felt threatened?
I thanked them for their concern and told them my decision was final. They left, slamming the door, swearing I would never see my grandchildren again and that I should no longer count on them.
You see, Im not afraidnot because Im indifferent, but because I have nothing left to lose. I have lived for years as if I didnt exist for anyone. Now its official.
And Amélie If one day she does what my sons fear, then Ill be wrong. But my heart tells me otherwise. She asked for nothingno money, no flat. She simply was there, extending a hand, behaving like a human being.
To me, that matters far more than any blood tie.
