My Relatives Are Eagerly Awaiting My Departure from This World; They Plan to Claim My Flat, But I’ve Taken Precautions in Advance.

My relatives have been waiting for the day I finally depart this world. They whisper about inheriting my flat, yet I have already taken steps to protect what is mine.

I am, by some twist of fate, sixty years old and have lived alone all these years. I have no children now and no husband, though once I was married. At twentyfive I wed Thomas, driven by love.

Our marriage fell apart when Thomass infidelity came to light. He brought his lover into our home, a breach I could not endure. I gathered my few belongings and moved back in with my parents. Barely two months after the divorce, I discovered I was pregnant.

Honestly, I never wished to tell my former husband. I cut off all contact and resolved to raise the child on my own. When my son, William, entered the world, the doctors delivered grim news: his birth was frail, and he carried an incurable ailment. He would be lucky to see his eleventh or twelfth birthday.

I was at a loss for what to do or where to turn. I nurtured William, nursing him each day, yet the shadow of his looming death never left my thoughts.

William grew to fifteen. In the span of a single week, both he and my father, Edward, passed away. I lost two beloved souls in rapid succession.

My father had bequeathed me his spacious flat in the heart of London. All my life I had lived alone, rarely seeing men. I yearned for a child, yet the memory of that tragedy held me back, and I took no chances. At fortyfive I bought a laptop to keep in touch with kin and to follow the news.

When my relatives learned of my solitary existence, they began to visit in shifts, bearing cakes and trinkets. They constantly asked whether I had drawn up a will; upon learning I had not, they fretted about my finances. Some even went to lengths to curry favor with other family members, hoping to appear more respectable in my eyes. I have already decided who shall inherit my flat: a good friends daughter, Lucy, who has always helped me without seeking anything in return.

My family, however, seems interested only in the property. Eventually I cut off communication with them, though that did not deter their schemes.

One day my cousin George called, brashly demanding whether I was still breathing and who I intended to leave the flat to. His audacity outraged me, and I barred all my relatives from writing or calling me thereafter.