My relatives are waiting for me to leave this world. They’re eyeing my flat, but I made sure to protect it well in advance.

As fate would have it, I am sixty years old and have lived a solitary life. There are no children or husband beside me, though once, many years ago, I was briefly married. At twenty-five, I wed for loves sake.

The marriage was torn apart by my husbands infidelity. He welcomed his mistress into our very home, our sanctuary. I simply couldnt stomach it; I gathered my belongings and returned to my parents house. Just two months following our divorce, a strange message arrived to me in a dreamI discovered I was pregnant.

To speak honestly, I never wanted to tell my former husband. I had no desire to contact him. I resolved that I would raise this child alone. When my son arrived, doctors brought tidings as bleak as English fog. Your boy is frail, they said. But thats not all. He bears an uncurable disease. Hell be lucky to see his twelfth birthday.

I was at sea, uncertain where to turn or what to do. I nursed my son, cradling him each morning with a persistent ache in my heart that reminded mehed soon leave this world.

Yet, my son lived until he was fifteen. It happened that both my son and my father departed within a week of each other. I lost two souls I cherished.

My father left me his flata spacious place, set in the heart of London, its windows looking down upon never-ending lamplight. All these years, I remained alone, never inviting many men into my story. My longing for a child lingered, but fear haunted methe pattern might repeat. I dared not try.

At forty-five, I bought myself a laptop, hoping to chat with kin and read the days news, sipping tea by the window. Family soon discovered my loneliness and started to visit in shifts. They arrived bearing scones, tea towels, odd souvenirs, and always, always with the same questionhad I drawn up a will? Upon learning I hadnt, their talk turned to their own money woes, theatrical sighs echoing round the parlour. Sometimes cousins questioned other relatives, arguing and boasting, hoping to glitter brightest in my eyes.

Honestly, I know precisely to whom my flat will goa friend whose daughter offers me help and kindness without question or reward.

My own family only desire the flat, nothing else, their eyes fixed on its brick and stone. Eventually I severed ties, stopped reaching out, yet they pressed on regardless.

One afternoon, my cousin phoned with the bluntness of a heavy boot, asking if I was still alive and who would inherit my flat. His words struck me so rudely, I blocked each relative, determined that never again would their voices invade my dreams or ring through my phone.