I COULD ONLY BUY A FLAT WHEN SOMEONE I LOVED DIED. THAT SHOULDN’T BE NORMAL

For years, I insisted I didn’t care about owning a home. I told myself, and others, I’d be perfectly happy renting long-term if it meant I could stay in London.

My friends are here, my job is here, my beloved grandparents are here.

I love the shopping, the theatre, the noise, the feeling that something is always happening. I love evening walks through the city with my puppy, the buzz that makes London feel alive even on the most ordinary days.

Buying a flat, especially outside the city, felt like a compromise I didn’t want to make.

And yet I’ve just bought a one-bedroom maisonette in Hertfordshire.

Not because I suddenly fell out of love with London, but because the reality of housing in this country eventually wore me down.

Last year, I became unwell and struggled to feel settled in the rented house I have been living in with two of my friends in south London.

I needed a change – somewhere that felt like mine, somewhere stable.

I did consider renting elsewhere, a different area, a fresh start. But I realised I wanted more than just a new postcode – I wanted my own space.

So, I opened Rightmove, filtered by price, by bedrooms, by vague hopes and I spent what felt like days scrolling.

What I discovered was bleak: all I could afford in London was a garage, or a dingy box studio with no oven and no washing machine. It was depressing – and sobering.

Even before I got ill, my parents had been encouraging me to move back closer to them. They live in rural Bedfordshire, about an hour from central London.

My dad asked me why, as I have more than £20,000 saved in an ISA, wait?

It sounds impressive for a 25-year-old but the truth is, I didn’t earn it.

I hate it when people congratulate me on buying my flat, because it wasn’t the result of hard work or discipline or clever saving. The money was a gift – inheritance from my late grandad.

Some friends, who are miles away from getting anywhere near the housing ladder, have made me feel quietly guilty. “You’re so lucky,” one said.

Lucky that my grandad died? It goes without saying I’d rather have him here than the money. But I also know he would be proud that I’m using it to build some stability for myself.

Without that inheritance, I simply wouldn’t be able to buy. I wouldn’t have a home of my own and I wouldn’t have the financial security that now feels essential, not indulgent.

So, yes – maybe I am lucky. But not in the way people mean it.

I’m moving to Hertfordshire, about 40 minutes by train from central London.

House prices are still high, but just about manageable. The flat is small but lovely. A reasonable service charge, close to the station, close to the town centre, close enough to London to keep my life intact, and close enough to my parents to keep them happy. It’s a town I’ve always loved.

It’s everything I need. And yet I can’t shake how sad this all feels.

Every single friend I know who has managed to buy a home – and there aren’t many – has done so because someone in their family died and left them money.

That is no longer an exception – it’s the rule.

We’ve built a housing system where grief unlocks stability, where death becomes the gateway to adulthood, where home ownership is less about work and more about inheritance timing.

That shouldn’t be normal.

We tell young people to save harder, budget better, be more patient. But the truth is that for many, no amount of discipline will ever bridge the gap.

Without inherited wealth, owning a home – even a modest one, far from where you actually want to live like mine – remains out of reach.

I’m grateful for my flat, I’m grateful for the safety it offers me and my puppy. I know how precarious renting can feel, especially when you’re unwell or vulnerable.

But I refuse to pretend this is how it’s meant to work.

If the only way a generation can buy homes is by losing someone they love, something has gone badly wrong.

2026-02-14T05:49:03Z