3 Stories about Children Who Neglect Their Old Parents and Got What They Deserved

Our dad had been quite wealthy, and we grew up with privilege. Walter and I left home at 18 and never looked back. Even when our dad passed away, we kept our distance from mom. She longed for our visits, but in vain.

Soon we learned that the woman, Grace, and her daughter, Katherine, had been renting part of mother’s house.

“Mother never said anything,” Walter scoffed, annoyed.

Feeling impatient, I blurted out, “Whatever. Let’s get this over with. You two have to move out soon, we’re going to sell that house.”

I glanced at Walter with a smile. The house was worth a lot.

Mr. Goldberg then cut in, “Thomas, calm down. Grace and Katherine are also part of the will, and you need to respect them.”

The shock came when the lawyer finished reading the will. Our mother had left Walter and me one dollar each, and everything else went to Grace and Katherine.

It was a slap in the face, but there was more. Teresa had saved every penny of the rent Grace paid, intending for Katherine to use it for college.

Walter and I were furious. We rose from our chairs and screamed in anger. Can’t believe our mother would do this to us! Mr. Goldberg chided us, reminding us of our absence at our mother’s funeral and how Grace and Katherine had been there for her.

“We’re getting our money!” Walter yelled as we stormed out.

I tried to be civil the next day when Grace and Katherine found us on their doorstep. “Listen, we’re not here to fight. We want to get a few of our things,” I said, hoping to ease the tension. Grace allowed us inside.

Once upstairs in my old room, Walter and I got close and whispered.

“We have to find evidences that that woman convinced mother to change her will,” I suggested.

But then, we found an envelope addressed to us from mom.

“Dear Sons,

“Don’t you dare try to take anything from Grace and Katherine! You don’t deserve a penny of my money since you were too good to spend time with me in the past decades. You already have your dad’s inheritance. That’s more than enough.

“That woman and her daughter were my only family. They cared for me when I was ill. They celebrated Christmas with me. They had dinner with me every night.

“Now, you two are my sons. I love you dearly, and I always will. But I hope you never have to live with the pain I did. I hope my grandkids never treat you like you treated me. I hope you learn from this.

All my love,

Mom.”

Walter and I looked at each other, sighing. She was right. We left the house quietly after that. I couldn’t shake off the feeling of guilt.

So, each year on mother’s death anniversary, Walter and I visited her grave, a silent promise to ourselves to be better, to learn from the harsh lesson our mother left us.

It was the one we needed.

2. My Daughter Nursed Her Sick Grandmother and Then Inherited Her Old Couch

As I stepped into the lawyer’s office, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of impatience. My daughter, Deborah, had been caring for my mother (her grandmother), Tessa, during the final stages of her life. The whole situation seemed unnecessarily dramatic to me.

I’ve always believed in being practical, not overly sentimental. Tessa had been a pillar for Deborah throughout her childhood, unlike me. I prefer to consider myself realistic.

When my mother expressed her wish to die at home, Deborah didn’t hesitate to take unpaid leave from job and move into Tessa’s house. Honestly, I didn’t see the point. I didn’t exactly have the best bond with my mother. And honestly, my daughter and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye on things, either. Especially when it came to Tessa. Her days were numbered, and Deborah’s sacrifice seemed excessive.

As for me, I had my own life to enjoy. I had booked a three-month world cruise and had no intention of canceling it. Why should I? Deborah had everything under control.

Over the next four months, Deborah dedicated herself to her grandma. She seemed to find joy in caring for her grandmother.

Then, one evening, Tessa passed away peacefully with my daughter by her side. When Deborah called me to break the news, I maintained my practical demeanor. “I’ll see her at the service, won’t I?” I responded.

I was more focused on the logistics – the estate and the inheritance. I remember Deborah being upset with me, “How can you think of that at a time like this?”

I quickly organized the funeral and contacted the lawyer to discuss the will. I was eager to find out about the estate – the house, the money, and the jewels. That’s what mattered to me.

But at the lawyer’s office, the will reading took me by surprise. My mother had left everything to me except for a peach brocade couch that was for Deborah. I couldn’t help but feel a bit victorious.

“Oh, Deborah,” I said as we left, “if you want that mangy couch, you’d better get it by the end of the week. I’m putting the house on the market.”

I tried to ignore her red-ridden eyes. Deborah arranged for a truck and hauled the couch away. I remember thinking how ridiculous it was for her to cherish such a worn-out piece of furniture.

Meanwhile, I busied myself with searching my mother’s house for the jewels. I was convinced they had to be there somewhere. But my search was in vain. I turned the house upside down but found nothing.

Little did I know, Deborah had discovered a hidden treasure in that stupid couch – a velvet bag filled with jewelry boxes and an envelope addressed to her. My mother had left her a heartfelt message:

“My Debbie, I want you to know how much I’ve loved you; what a blessing you’ve been in my life. I wanted to pass you the jewels my grandmother gave me, but I know my daughter all too well.

“Martha would find a way to cheat you, so I’m giving them to you this way so you can enjoy them. Remember I love you.”

Worst of all, my daughter didn’t care much to show off either. I realized that my indifference had cost me more than I had ever imagined.

In my pursuit of practicality, I had overlooked the value of being there for your loved ones when they need you the most.

Ultimately, I had the house and the money, but not the love my mom had enjoyed from my daughter.

The realization was a bitter pill to swallow.

3. I Sold My Mother’s House, and She Left Everything to a Stranger

“So what’s the deal, Mr. Thompson?” I asked the lawyer. “I’m hoping the will is going to be pretty straightforward as I expect Mom’s assets to be mine.”

Mr. Thompson sighed, looking at me with a seriousness. “I’m afraid that’s not the case here, Jake,” he said. “Your mother’s will is quite… unusual.”

“What? What do you mean?” I asked, my body stiffening with tension.

“She left everything to a foundation dedicated to psychiatry, making Mrs. McKinsey the trustee,” Mr. Thompson explained, showing me the will.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. “It’s a joke? Who is this Mrs. McKinsey? I’ve never heard Mom even mention her!”

“She is a doctor at a psychiatric hospital,” he replied, but his explanation did nothing.

My phone started ringing, but I was too shocked. The calls kept coming until a message flashed across the screen: “If you don’t pay the money back in 72 hours, you are dead!”

Furious, I stormed out of the lawyer’s office. In my car, I quickly looked up Mrs. McKinsey, finding out she was the chief neurologist at the Denver Psychiatric Hospital. I drove there ASAP.

“I’m Jake, Rose’s son,” I said, shaking Mrs. McKinsey’s hand more tightly than necessary.

“Oh, I see. I know why you’re here, Jake,” she nodded. “You can call me Sarah.”

“Well, Sarah, glad you know,” I quipped sarcastically.

“You should know you have an older brother, Jake. He has autism. Your mother just wanted to ensure his well-being and safety.”

“What are you talking about? I’m an only child!” I exclaimed in disbelief.

“We’ve been treating him here for 25 years,” Sarah continued. “Ever since he accidentally poured scalding water on you when you were just a year old.”

My jaw dropped, but I quickly thought of a solution. “I don’t care, I want half the money. My share,” I demanded.

“Sorry, Jake, but that’s impossible,” she replied. “The funds were assigned for your brother’s treatment.”

Enraged, I threw a tantrum before storming out to the parking lot.

I couldn’t stop thinking about how my mother had betrayed me. I had sold her house, put her in a nursing home, and never looked back, so what?! Suddenly, I saw a man examining my convertible.

“Arnie drove this car,” the man said, turning to me. “Every Saturday, when Arnie’s Mom visited him, she’d let Arnie see this car.”

Realizing he was talking about mom, I asked, “What was Arnie’s mother’s name?”

“Arnie’s Mom is Rose. Rose. We played cards, too.”

This was my brother. I remembered that some people with autism had brilliant minds. Seizing the opportunity, I invited Arnie out.

“Let’s go for a drive. It’ll be fun!” I said, forcing a smile.

We drove off, and soon Sarah called, furious about me taking Arnie. I made her an offer: I would take custody of Arnie and get all the money. She refused, so I took Arnie to a casino.

“Arnie, remember what we talked about in the car,” I whispered to him at the Blackjack table. “You make your calculations, and then you quietly tell me what move I must make.”

We won big, but the suspicious stares from others forced us to leave. We celebrated at a nearby bar, where a gorgeous woman named Samantha joined us from the neighboring table.

Later, I dozed off in the hotel hallway, only to be woken by screams from their room. Rushing in, I saw a man with a shotgun aiming at Arnie and Samantha. I managed to protect Arnie, who had a panic attack.

I calmed him down after a few minutes and looked back to realize that Samantha and the man fled with our winnings. “Arnie, they took it all—every last penny,” I sighed.

Defeated, I returned Arnie to the hospital, feeling so sorry… Sarah approached me, offering help despite everything I had done. She gave me a check – that was enough to save my life.

“Can I visit Arnie?” I asked, realizing how I had wanted a brother.

“Anytime,” she replied. Arnie has been the most important person in my life since.

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Note: These pieces are inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.