My name is ÉlodieMarchand, Im sixtynine years old, mother of two sons, grandmother of three, and stepmother to two daughtersinlaw. With such a family one might think Im surrounded by affection and attention, yet for several years Ive lived like an orphanalone in my flat, a sore knee and a phone that stays silent for weeks.
Everything changed after my husband passed away. While he was alive, my sons would drop by occasionally for holidays or errands, but once the burial was over they vanished. Five long years passed without seeing them, even though they live in the same city, only about a fortyminute bus ride away.
I never blamed them; I simply called when I needed help. When the neighbours water overflowed into my kitchenjust a little, but it ruined the ceilingI rang my two 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 own mother.
Later my old fridge broke down. I know nothing about appliances and feared being scammed, so I called my sons again. Their reply was, Mom, there are salespeople, figure it out yourself. Eventually I turned to my brother, who sent his daughtermy niece Améliealong with her husband, and they took care of everything.
When the pandemic hit, my sons suddenly remembered me. They phoned once a month, telling me to stay home and order my groceries online. The problem was: I didnt know how. Amélie showed me the way, arranged the first delivery, gave me a list of pharmacies that deliver, and began calling me almost daily.
At first I felt guilty. After all, Amélie has her own parents, a house, a husband, a daughter. Yet she was the only one who visited without any reason. She brought soup, medicines, helped tidy, washed windows, and one day simply came to share tea and sit with me. My greatgranddaughterher little daughtercalls me mammy, a word I hadnt heard in years.
I made a decision: if my own children have forgotten me, caring only about what they can take rather than what they can give, then my flat will go to the one who truly stands by me. I went to the social services office to draft a will. That very day, by chance, my eldest son called to ask where I was heading.
I told him the truth.
From then on the shouting beganinsults, accusations. Have you lost your mind? Its our inheritance! Shell be gone the moment you sign! That same evening both sons arrived, for the first time in five years, bringing a granddaughter Id never seen and a pie. We sat at the table; I hoped perhaps they might change their minds. They didnt. They tried to persuade me, reminding me I have children, that I have no right to bequeath my home to a stranger, accusing Amélie of scheming and predicting she would evict me.
I stared at them, astonished. Where were you all this time? Why didnt you help when I needed it? Why appear only when the inheritance feels threatened?
I thanked them for their concern and said my decision was final. They left, slamming the door, swearing I would never see my grandchildren again and that I should not count on them any longer.
Im not afraidnot because Im indifferent, but because I have nothing left to lose. Ive lived for years as if I didnt exist for anyone. Now its official.
As for Amélie If one day she does what my sons imagine, then perhaps I was wrong. My heart tells me otherwise. She asked for nothingno money, no apartment. She simply showed up, extended her hand, and behaved like a human being. To me, that matters far more than any blood tie.
When Only the Niece is Left for the Mother
