Two years had passed. Not a single word from my daughter since then—she had erased me from her life. And soon, I’ll be seventy…
My neighbour, Evelyn Whitmore, was well-known in our neighbourhood. At sixty-eight, she lived alone. Occasionally, I’d drop by with something for tea—just a neighbourly gesture. She was kind, refined, always smiling, fond of recounting her travels with her late husband. But she rarely spoke of family. Then, just before the holidays, as I brought over some treats as usual, she surprised me with a confession. That evening, I heard a story that still chills me to the bone.
When I stepped into her flat, Evelyn wasn’t herself. Usually lively and cheerful, she sat quietly that night, staring into space. I didn’t pry, just brewed the tea, set out the biscuits, and sat beside her in silence. For a long while, she said nothing, wrestling with herself. Then, suddenly, she exhaled:
“Two years… Not a call, not a card, not even a text. I tried ringing—the number doesn’t work anymore. I don’t even know her address now…”
She paused for a moment. It was as if decades flickered before her eyes. Then, as if a dam had broken, Evelyn began to speak.
“We were a happy family. Robert and I married young but waited to have children—we wanted time for ourselves first. His work allowed us to travel often. We were close, always laughing, devoted to the home we’d built together. He made it a nest for us—a spacious three-bedroom in the heart of London. It was his life’s dream…”
When our daughter, Charlotte, was born, Robert bloomed anew. He carried her in his arms, read her stories, spent every spare moment with her. Watching them, I thought myself the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, Robert left us. He’d been ill for years. We fought till the end, spent everything we had. And then… silence. Emptiness. Like a piece of string had been ripped from my heart.
After her father’s death, Charlotte began to drift away. She rented a flat, wanted to live on her own. I didn’t object—she was grown, it was her life to shape. She visited, we talked, things were… normal. But two years ago, she came to me and announced plainly that she was taking out a mortgage to buy her own place.
I sighed and explained I couldn’t help. What savings Robert and I had scraped together were nearly gone—all spent on his treatment. My pension barely covered the bills and prescriptions. Then she suggested… selling the flat. “We’ll buy you a one-bed somewhere on the outskirts,” she said. “The rest can go toward my deposit.”
I couldn’t agree. It wasn’t about the money—it was about memory. Every room, every corner—Robert had shaped them with his own hands. This was where my happiness had lived, where my life had unfolded. How could I let it go? She shouted that her father had done it all for her, that the flat would be hers one day anyway, that I was selfish. I tried to explain that I only wanted her to come back someday, to remember us here… But she wouldn’t listen.
That day, she slammed the door and left. Since then—silence. No calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, I heard from a mutual friend that she’d taken the mortgage after all and was now working herself to the bone—two jobs, never a moment’s rest. No family, no children. Even her closest friend said she hadn’t seen her in half a year.
And I… I wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, hoping it might ring. But it never does. And I can’t reach her anymore—she must have changed her number. Perhaps she doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to hear me. She thinks I betrayed her that day, refusing to yield. But I’ll be seventy soon. I don’t know how much longer I’ll last in this flat, how many evenings I’ll spend by the window, waiting. And I don’t know what I did to hurt her so…
