Emma was the only one who visited her grandmother, Margaret Evelyn, with any sort of regularity. Life had a funny way of working out—her parents, perpetually swamped with work, often left her with Gran while they dashed off on business trips. Her older brother, Oliver, had it easier, spoiled rotten and wrapped in affection like a Sunday roast in cling film.
But Emma had learned early to fend for herself. She chose her own path, studied hard, lived in student digs, landed a job, and rented her own flat. It wasn’t a walk in the park, but she ploughed on, never asking for handouts.
Her parents were distant, her brother barely civil. Gran was the only one who truly understood her. Emma made sure to pop round every week—sometimes straight from work, since her office was just down the road in Croydon.
That evening, Gran greeted her with a face like thunder. Ignoring it, Emma hugged her tight and chirped, “What’s for dinner tonight, Gran? Bangers and mash or shepherd’s pie?”
Margaret Evelyn barely mustered a hello before muttering, “Shepherd’s pie. The low-fat kind.” Then, squinting suspiciously, she added, “Tell me the truth—why d’you come round so much? After my flat, are you?”
Emma blinked. “Gran, don’t be daft. Sit down, I’ll tidy up.”
As Emma bustled about, Gran watched her like a hawk. Something was off, but Emma played it cool, humming as she prepped dinner. “Fancy a cuppa? Brought your favourite chocolate digestives!”
Gran heaved herself up, leaning on the doorframe. “Listen, Emma… I’ve gone and signed the flat over to Oliver. So what now? Still planning to visit? No point—you’re getting nothing.”
Emma calmly filled the kettle. “Honestly, Gran, I don’t care about the flat. I care about *you*. You raised me when everyone else was too busy. Now it’s my turn. Do what you like with the place.” She spread a biscuit with butter, perfectly unbothered.
Gran faltered, then rallied. “Good! Find yourself a bloke with a house! Oliver needs a place for his fiancée! Can’t have them bunking with your parents forever!”
Emma just smiled. “Gran, enough. Let’s have tea. How’s *Coronation Street*? Still waiting to catch up. Oh, and I’ll bring you that new electric blanket tomorrow—winter’s coming.”
And that, for the evening at least, was that.
Until Oliver rang three days later, livid. “How *could* you?! You tricked Gran into giving you the flat! I *hate* you!” Before Emma could protest, he slammed the phone down. Her mum called next, equally furious.
“I’ve no idea what you’re on about,” Emma said flatly, then switched her phone off.
At her next visit, she cut straight to it. “Gran, tell me the truth. What’s going on with the flat? I haven’t done a thing, but if you need help, I know a solicitor.”
Margaret Evelyn sighed. Turns out, she’d been spooked by horror stories from her book club—relatives sweet-talking their way into wills, then turfing old folk out. So she’d run a little test. She told Emma the flat was Oliver’s, and Oliver it was Emma’s.
Emma had taken it in stride. Oliver, however, had thrown a tantrum, accused Gran of betrayal, and stormed off, vowing never to speak to her again.
Emma listened, stunned.
“Gran, I don’t want anything,” she said softly. “I’m here for *you*. If you ever need help with paperwork, or just someone in your corner—I’m there.”
Gran wiped her eyes. “Thank you, love. But I’m set in my ways, and you’ve your own life. Let’s leave things as they are.”
So they did.
Margaret Evelyn kept her flat. Emma kept visiting, bearing treats and brewing tea. Between them was something no legal document could touch: real love, real gratitude.
And Gran never again doubted who truly held her heart.