Helen rented a room from an elderly distant relative named Margaret Thompson. The woman lived alone, though she had a grown-up daughter—Louise. When Louise heard that her mother had taken in a young woman, she was relieved—finally, someone would look after the old lady.
Helen kept the flat tidy, cooked meals, ran errands, and accompanied Margaret to the doctor’s. Louise only dropped by occasionally, and her visits were marked by complaints: if she spotted unwashed dishes or a bit of clutter, she’d immediately scold Helen.
Years passed. Helen graduated from university, found work, married, and moved into a rented flat with her husband. But she never forgot her elderly neighbour—she visited often, bringing groceries, medicine, and lending a hand around the house.
One day, arriving for a visit, Helen froze in the doorway, unable to believe her eyes.
Margaret lay unconscious on the floor. Panicking, Helen called an ambulance. What followed was a desperate fight for life. Margaret was rushed to the hospital, but after being discharged, she never left her bed again.
From then on, Helen’s life changed completely. For five long years, she cared for the helpless woman. She juggled shifts at work to make time, and when she was away, a carer watched over Margaret.
Louise? Louise was always too busy. Children, grandchildren, her “poor health,” as she put it. She only ever stopped by briefly, wrinkling her nose each time—”I can’t stand the smell in here.”
Not once in all those years did she offer help.
One day, Margaret hesitantly asked, “Helen, the carer suggested signing an agreement—she’d care for me in exchange for the flat. But I don’t want that. I trust you. Let’s put the flat in your name. You won’t abandon me, will you?”
Helen didn’t hesitate. They sorted the paperwork, and a new carer was hired. The work was gruelling—Margaret never got out of bed, needing constant attention. But knowing her neighbour had trusted her with her home gave Helen strength.
Years passed. Margaret passed away quietly, leaving Helen heartbroken. Soon after, a storm arrived at her doorstep.
Bursting in without knocking, Louise began shouting, “You shameless thief! You took my mother’s flat! Who were you to her? Just some distant relative! That flat belongs to me and my children! You’d better sell it and give me the money!”
Helen stayed silent, knowing words were useless. Louise wasn’t there to listen.
“Won’t do it willingly? We’ll take you to court!” Louise screamed before slamming the door behind her.
Helen couldn’t help but remember how it all began.
When she’d first moved to the city to study, her grandmother had arranged for her to stay temporarily with Margaret—a distant cousin. Helen had meant to stay a month, but the old woman grew so fond of her that she convinced her to remain.
Louise had been thrilled at first—someone else was handling the chores, the cooking, the doctor visits. But the moment anything was slightly out of place, she’d blame Helen.
Later, Helen moved on with her life, but she never abandoned Margaret.
When Margaret became bedridden, Louise refused to care for her. The burden fell entirely on Helen.
Carers, work shifts, exhaustion—Helen never complained. It was her duty.
And now, Louise, remembering her mother only after her death, wanted the flat. But it couldn’t be undone—everything had been done lawfully.
No shouting, no threats, could rewrite the past.
Helen stood by the window in the flat she’d earned not through charm, but through years of real love and care. There was no spite in her heart, only sadness.
“I’d have stayed anyway,” she whispered, watching the sunset. “Not for the flat. For you, Margaret.”
And in that quiet moment, despite the noise and unfairness, she knew she’d done the right thing—a testament to the truth that love, not duty alone, is what truly matters in the end.