My name is Élodie Marchand, Im 69 years old, mother of two sons, grandmother to three grandchildren and stepmother to two daughtersinlaw. With such a family one might think Im surrounded by affection and attention. In recent years, however, I have felt like an orphan, living alone in my flat with a hurting knee and a phone that stays silent for weeks.
After my husband passed away everything changed. While he was alive my sons would drop by now and thenfor holidays or errandsbut once he was buried they vanished. Five long years passed without seeing them, even though they live in the same city, only a fortyminute bus ride away.
I never blamed them; I simply called for help. When my neighbours flooded my kitchenonly a little, but the ceiling was damagedI phoned my two sons. They promised to come over the weekend, but nobody showed up. I had to hire a painter. It wasnt the money that hurt, but the realization that my children could not 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. In the end I turned to my brother, who sent his daughter, my niece Amélie, with her husband. They took care of everything.
When the pandemic struck, my sons suddenly remembered me. They called once a month, telling 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 me almost daily.
At first I felt guilty. After all, Amélie has her own parents, house, husband and daughter. Yet she was the only one who showed up without any reason. She brought soup, medication, helped me tidy, washed the windows. One day she simply came for tea and to sit with me. Her little girlmy greatgrandniececalled me grandma, a word I hadnt heard in years.
So I made a decision: if my own children had forgotten me, caring only about what they could take rather than what they could give, then my flat would go to the one who truly is there. I went to the service centre to write a will. That very day, by chance, my eldest son called, wanting to know where I was going.
I told him the truth.
What followed was a flood of shouting, insults and accusations: Have you lost your mind?, Its our inheritance!, Shell be evicted as soon as you sign!
That same evening both sons arrivedfor the first time in five yearsbringing a granddaughter I had never seen and a tart. We sat at the table; I hoped maybe they would change their minds. They didnt. They tried to persuade me, reminding me that I have children and that I have no right to give my flat to a stranger. They accused Amélie of scheming and warned that she would throw me out.
I stared at them, incredulous. Where were you all this time? Why didnt you help when I needed it? Why call only when the inheritance seemed 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 know, Im not afraid. Not because Im indifferent, but because I have nothing left to loseI have lived for years as if I existed for no one. Now its official.
And Amélie If one day she does what my sons imagine, then Ill be wrong. But my heart tells me otherwise. She asked for nothingno money, no flat. She was simply there, reached out, and behaved like a human being.
To me, that means more than any blood tie.
When Only the Niece Remains with the Mother
