My name is Élodie Marchand, Im sixtynine. I have two sons, three grandchildren and two daughtersinlaw. With a family like that youd think Im surrounded by love and attention. In reality, the past few years have left me feeling like an orphan, alone in my flat with a painful knee and a phone that stays silent for weeks.
After my husband passed away, everything changed. While he was alive, my sons visited occasionallyfor 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 about forty minutes away by bus.
I didnt blame them; I simply called for help. When the neighbours roof leaked into my kitchenjust a little, but the ceiling was damagedI phoned my two sons. They promised to come over the weekend, yet none arrived. I had to hire a painter. It wasnt about the money; it was the hurt of seeing my children unable to spare an hour for their mother.
Later my ancient refrigerator broke down. I know nothing about appliances and feared being ripped off. I called my sons againMom, there are salespeople, figure it out. In the end I turned to my brother, who sent his daughter, my niece Amélie, with her husband. They fixed everything.
When the pandemic struck, my sons suddenly remembered me. They called once a month, urging me to stay home and order groceries online. They forgot, however, that I didnt know how. Amélie taught me how to place orders, 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 parents, her house, her husband, her daughter. Yet she was the only one who came without any reason. She brought soup, medication, helped tidy, washed windows. One day she simply sat for tea and stayed with me. Her little girlmy greatgrandniececalled me grandma, a word I hadnt heard in years.
I decided then: if my own children have forgotten me, if they care only about what they can take rather than what they can give, my apartment will go to the person who truly is there. 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 gone as soon as you sign! That very evening both sons cametogetherfor the first time in five years, bringing a granddaughter I had never seen and a pie. We sat down at the table; I hoped perhaps they would change their minds. They did not. They tried to persuade me, reminding me I have children, that I have no right to leave the flat to a stranger. They accused Amélie of scheming and warned that she would throw me out.
I stared at them, stunned. Where were you 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 said 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.
Know this: 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 imagine, then Ill be wrong. But my heart tells me otherwise. She asked for nothingno money, no flat. She simply was there, reached out, and behaved like a human being.
That, to me, means more than any blood tie.
