He’d only survived from handouts from his parents, whom he visited in suburbia solely for that end.
When Dad died his hopes were raised. Mom was in her 80s and surely wouldn’t last long.
A couple of hundred grand would come his way!
Then, she was diagnosed with dementia. Marge, his well-off happily married sister and dutiful daughter, took control.
The house was sold, and Mom was put in a care home.
Christ! Forty grand a year from her savings!
Three years pass and he visits for the first time. Mom doesn’t even know who he is, but to his dismay appears in good physical shape.
Realizing his inheritance is dwindling away, Martin goes to the pub to console himself.
No one wants to talk to the miserable fellow at the bar.
Five pints later, he’s skint, and walks out into the bitterly cold night cursing the world.