My name is ÉlodieMarchand, Im sixtynine years old, mother of two sons, grandmother of three and stepmother to two daughtersinlaw. With such a family you might think Im surrounded by love and attention. In reality, the past few years have left me feeling like an orphan, living alone in my flat with a sore knee and a phone that stays silent for weeks.
After my husband passed away everything fell apart. While he was alive my sons visited occasionallyfor holidays or businessbut the moment 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 never blamed them; I simply called when I needed help. When my neighbours water overflowed into my kitchenjust a little, but it damaged the ceilingI phoned my two sons. They promised to come over the weekend. No one showed up. I ended up hiring a painter. It wasnt the money that hurt; it was the realization that my children couldnt spare an hour for their mother.
Later my ancient refrigerator gave out. I know nothing about appliances and feared being ripped off, so I called my sons again. Mom, there are salespeople, figure it out yourself, they replied. In the end I turned to my brother, who sent his daughtermy niece Amélieand her husband. They fixed everything.
When the pandemic struck, my sons suddenly remembered me. They called once a month, telling me to stay home and order my groceries online. The problem was I didnt know how. Amélie taught me how to place orders, arranged the first delivery, gave me a list of pharmacies that delivered, 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 showed up without any reason. She brought soup, medication, helped me tidy up, 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.
That made me decide: if my own children forget me, caring only about what they can take rather than what they can give, then my flat will go to the person who truly is there. I went to the social services office to draw up a will. That same day, by coincidence, my eldest son called to ask where I was going.
I told him the truth.
And the storm began. Shouts, insults, accusations flew: Are you out of your mind? Its our inheritance! Shell be gone as soon as you sign! That very evening both sons arrivedfor the first time in five yearsbringing a granddaughter I had never seen and a tart. We sat down together. I hoped perhaps they might change their minds, but they didnt. They tried to persuade me, reminding me that I have children, that I have no right to leave the apartment to a stranger. They accused Amélie of scheming, warned that she would evict me.
I stared at them, stunned. Where have you been 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 said my decision was final. They left, slamming the door, swearing I would never see my grandchildren again and that I should no longer rely 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 I will have been wrong. But my heart tells me otherwise. She asked for nothingno money, no flat. She simply was there, reached out, and acted like a human being.
To me, that matters more than any blood tie.
