My name is Anne.

I had just lost my parents and had dropped out of school. I was 26 years old, jobless, penniless, and tired of asking for help. A friend told me about a family in Ikoyi looking for a live-in caregiver for their grandmother.“They’ll pay you 40,000$ a month,” she said. I didn’t care about the salary; all I needed was food and a roof over my head.

That’s how I met Grandma Ethel.

They lived in an imposing, immaculate mansion, but with a coldness that permeated their souls. Her children barely visited her once a month; sometimes, not even that. Her grandchildren never called. “Just feed her, bathe her, give her her medicine. She likes to talk, but don’t pay too much attention to her,” they told me.
But I listened to her… and she listened to me too.

She was 92 years old. Frail, wrinkled, but with a wisdom that can’t be bought. One afternoon, as I wept silently in the kitchen, she called to me: “Anne, come!” I wiped my face and went to her room. She took my hand and said,
“You remind me of my younger self. Strong on the outside, broken on the inside. Don’t worry, child… everything will change.”

He suffered from insomnia, so almost every night I sat by his bed, listening to stories about his youth, the war, his marriage, and his regrets. “My children have forgotten me. But you… you see me,” he would tell me. He didn’t do much: small talk, back rubs, hot tea. But somehow, he said I had given him back his life.

Her daughter began to notice. “Why does she always call you? You’re not here to be her friend, you know?” I just nodded and remained silent. Grandma Ethel always told me, “Let them talk. They never saw me… you did.”

One day, he asked me to remember something: “There’s a box under my bed. If anything happens to me, open it.” I promised him I would. Weeks passed, and his body grew weaker every day… until, one morning, he didn’t wake up.

After the funeral, the family didn’t shed a tear. Before the service was over, they were already arguing about his will. That night, I opened the box. Inside was a letter:

“To my dear Anne,
You reminded me of my humanity when the world forgot me. I have amended my will: you now own the property in Shomolu and 2.5 million ₦ in my GTB account. This isn’t a reward, it’s a thank you.
Love,
Grandma Ethel.”

When the lawyer confirmed the will, the family went wild. “How can a complete stranger inherit something?!” “She manipulated Mom!” But the lawyer responded,
“Ms. Ethel was of sound mind. She wrote this will in her own hand and videotaped it, saying, ‘Anne gave me peace. My family gave me presence.’”

I quietly left the mansion. I moved into Shomolu’s bungalow, with a small garden. I renovated it and opened a care center for the elderly, which I called Ethel’s Arms . It started with three elderly women; today we serve more than 50 in Lagos. All because one forgotten woman… remembered me.

Years later, one of her granddaughters appeared in my waiting room. I recognized her immediately. She looked at me and said, “I judged you… but today I need help for my mother, and someone told me to come here. I’m sorry.” I smiled. “Forgiveness is easy,” I replied, “when love guides the way.”

Every flower that blooms in my garden carries her memory. Every elderly person I care for is a thank you to her. I was hired to care for a dying woman… but she ended up giving me back my life.

My name is Anne.
I had just lost my parents and had dropped out of school. I was 26 years old, jobless, penniless, and tired of asking for help. A friend told me about a family in Ikoyi looking for a live-in caregiver for their grandmother.
“They’ll pay you 40,000$ a month,” she said. I didn’t care about the salary; all I needed was food and a roof over my head.

That’s how I met Grandma Ethel.

They lived in an imposing, immaculate mansion, but with a coldness that permeated their souls. Her children barely visited her once a month; sometimes, not even that. Her grandchildren never called. “Just feed her, bathe her, give her her medicine. She likes to talk, but don’t pay too much attention to her,” they told me.
But I listened to her… and she listened to me too.

She was 92 years old. Frail, wrinkled, but with a wisdom that can’t be bought. One afternoon, as I wept silently in the kitchen, she called to me: “Anne, come!” I wiped my face and went to her room. She took my hand and said,
“You remind me of my younger self. Strong on the outside, broken on the inside. Don’t worry, child… everything will change.”

He suffered from insomnia, so almost every night I sat by his bed, listening to stories about his youth, the war, his marriage, and his regrets. “My children have forgotten me. But you… you see me,” he would tell me. He didn’t do much: small talk, back rubs, hot tea. But somehow, he said I had given him back his life.

Her daughter began to notice. “Why does she always call you? You’re not here to be her friend, you know?” I just nodded and remained silent. Grandma Ethel always told me, “Let them talk. They never saw me… you did.”

One day, he asked me to remember something: “There’s a box under my bed. If anything happens to me, open it.” I promised him I would. Weeks passed, and his body grew weaker every day… until, one morning, he didn’t wake up.

After the funeral, the family didn’t shed a tear. Before the service was over, they were already arguing about his will. That night, I opened the box. Inside was a letter:

“To my dear Anne,
You reminded me of my humanity when the world forgot me. I have amended my will: you now own the property in Shomolu and 2.5 million ₦ in my GTB account. This isn’t a reward, it’s a thank you.
Love,
Grandma Ethel.”

When the lawyer confirmed the will, the family went wild. “How can a complete stranger inherit something?!” “She manipulated Mom!” But the lawyer responded,
“Ms. Ethel was of sound mind. She wrote this will in her own hand and videotaped it, saying, ‘Anne gave me peace. My family gave me presence.’”

I quietly left the mansion. I moved into Shomolu’s bungalow, with a small garden. I renovated it and opened a care center for the elderly, which I called Ethel’s Arms . It started with three elderly women; today we serve more than 50 in Lagos. All because one forgotten woman… remembered me.

Years later, one of her granddaughters appeared in my waiting room. I recognized her immediately. She looked at me and said, “I judged you… but today I need help for my mother, and someone told me to come here. I’m sorry.” I smiled. “Forgiveness is easy,” I replied, “when love guides the way.”

Every flower that blooms in my garden carries her memory. Every elderly person I care for is a thank you to her. I was hired to care for a dying woman… but she ended up giving me back my life.