A Dispute Over Nan’s Inheritance
When my grandmother, Margaret Elizabeth, passed away, leaving me her flat and a small sum of savings, I, Emily, felt both sorrow and relief. It was her final gift, a sign she had always cared for me. But before I could fully grieve, my mother, Victoria Anne, whom I hadn’t seen in twenty years, suddenly reappeared. She tracked me down and wasted no time declaring, “Emily, we need to sell everything Nan left and split the money.” I was stunned. The woman who abandoned me as a child now wanted a share of my inheritance? This wasn’t just about money—it was ripping open an old wound she’d left to fester.
I’m 32, married to Simon, with a life and plans of my own. Nan raised me from the age of ten after Mum vanished, claiming she was off to “find a better life.” No calls, no letters, no concern for whether I was alive. Margaret became everything to me—mother, father, confidante. She worked two jobs so I could study, baked me fairy cakes, taught me to knit. Her flat, a modest two-bed with floral wallpaper, was my home, my sanctuary. Now, with her gone, that flat is all I have left to remember her by.
Mum showed up a month after the funeral. I hadn’t a clue how she found me. She rang as if no time had passed and said, “Emily, I heard about Nan’s will. We should meet, discuss things.” Discuss? I thought she wanted to reconcile, to apologise for two decades of silence. But over tea at a café, she cut straight to the chase: “The flat needs selling, and we’ll split the profits. I’m her daughter too—I’m entitled.” Entitled? I nearly choked on my anger. She left me, never sent a penny to help Nan, and now she demanded half?
I kept my voice steady. “Mum, you weren’t there. Nan raised me alone. How can you possibly think you have a right?” She glared, wounded. “Emily, I’m your mother! I’ve suffered too—life hasn’t exactly been a bed of roses for me.” A bed of roses? While Nan and I scraped by? I remembered nights she wept because she couldn’t afford new shoes for my prom. Meanwhile, Victoria was off “building her life” somewhere. “Nan left it all to me,” I said. “That was her wish.” But she wouldn’t yield. “If we can’t agree, I’ll take it to court.”
Court? That word shattered me. After twenty years of forgetting I existed, she’d sue me for Nan’s flat? I stormed out, tears burning. At home, Simon was furious. “Em, she’s got no claim! That inheritance is yours, full stop.” But I couldn’t shake the guilt. Was I being too harsh? Should I give her something? Then I’d picture Nan’s hands, her smile, her voice saying, “This is your home, love.” And I knew—I wouldn’t betray that. Not for money, not for pride. Nan’s memory meant too much.
A friend urged me to see a solicitor. “She hasn’t a leg to stand on if the will’s clear,” she said. The lawyer confirmed it: Mum had no claim unless she proved financial dependence. Still, I dreaded what came next. Not the legal battle—but the final rupture between us. I’d dreamed she might return remorseful, that we could start anew. Instead, we were locked in a fight over pounds and pence.
Now Mum oscillates between pleading texts and threats of litigation. I ignore them, but each message twists the knife. Simon stands firm: “Stay strong, Em. We’ll get through this.” Yet the guilt lingers. Maybe I should relent? Then I hear Nan’s voice in my head—her love, her sacrifices—and my resolve hardens. This flat isn’t just brick and mortar. It’s her legacy. And I won’t surrender it. Mum made her choices long ago. Now I’ll live with mine.