In Old Age, My Children Remembered They Had a Mother — But I’ll Never Forget How They Treated Me.

For many years, I lived as if forgotten by the world. My name is Helena, and at 72 years old, I carry more than just wrinkles — I carry the weight of everything I endured in silence.

It all began when my husband left me for another woman. Our children, already grown, took his side. After all, he was a respected man — the director of a major company. I was left behind, discarded, ignored.

From that moment on, my children treated me like a stranger. It was as if we spoke different languages. Our relationship shattered, and I became a distant memory to them. I heard through acquaintances how they traveled with their father and his young wife, dined in fancy restaurants, and planned their lives — without me.

Meanwhile, I sat alone in my quiet apartment. Every piece of news about them felt like a shard of glass piercing my heart.

Eventually, I came to a realization: I had to live for myself. So I moved abroad and started working. For the first time in years, I felt free.

By the time I returned home, I had saved enough to renovate my apartment, buy new furniture and appliances, and set aside money for my old age. I finally had peace — even if I had it alone.

My children built their own lives. I heard they were doing well — grand weddings, children, parties. But then, something unexpected happened: my ex-husband died of a heart attack. And it became clear he had left all his fortune to his young wife.

My children were left with nothing. And suddenly, their bitterness turned into fond memories of me.

They began visiting me — bringing little gifts, sweets, fruit, asking how I was. I welcomed them with a smile, but deep down, I knew the truth: each of them had a motive.

Now, at 72, I’m healthy, independent, and content. Still, recently my daughter started to bring up the future — speaking vaguely about wills and inheritance. Then, a few weeks ago, my granddaughter came to visit. The one who got married just last year.

— Grandma, don’t you get lonely here all by yourself? — she asked sweetly.
— No, I’m very comfortable here — I replied.
— But the apartment is so big… it must be hard to clean, right? Maybe my husband and I could move in? That way, it’d be more fun for you and easier for us — we wouldn’t need to pay rent.

I smiled. Her intentions were clear.

— Who said you wouldn’t pay rent? — I answered calmly. — I can offer you a good discount.

She was speechless. She clearly expected me to say, “Take everything, I’m just happy to help.” But I had other plans.

Years ago, I wrote my will. In it, I made it very clear: after my death, this apartment will be sold, and the money will go to a fund for helping sick children.

When my daughter found out, she was furious. She called me, shouting, saying I was unfair, that I was robbing my grandchildren of their future. Later, my son came by, gently suggesting that he’d be willing to “take care of me.” But their sudden affection didn’t fool me.

I don’t hold grudges — but I haven’t forgotten.

And you, if you were in my place… would you let your granddaughter live in your apartment for free?