Two years have passed. Not a single word from my daughter since then—she’s erased me from her life. And here I am, nearly seventy years old.
Everyone in the neighbourhood knows my neighbour, Evelyn Margaret. She’s sixty-eight and lives alone. Sometimes, I drop by with something for tea—just as a friendly gesture. She’s kind, refined, always with a smile, and loves reminiscing about the travels she took with her late husband. But she rarely speaks of family. Then, just before the last holiday season, when I visited with treats as usual, she unexpectedly opened up. That evening, I heard a story that still makes my blood run cold.
When I stepped into her flat, Evelyn wasn’t herself. Normally lively and cheerful, she sat quietly that night, staring blankly. I didn’t press, just brewed tea, set out biscuits, and sat beside her in silence. For ages, she said nothing, evidently wrestling with herself. Then she exhaled sharply and spoke.
“It’s been two years… Not one call. No postcard, no text. I tried ringing—her number doesn’t work anymore. I don’t even know where she lives now.”
She paused. A lifetime seemed to flash before her eyes. Then, as if something inside her broke, the words poured out.
“We were happy once. James and I married young, but we waited before starting a family, wanting time for ourselves. His job let us travel often. We laughed, loved our home—the one we built together. He made it perfect: a spacious three-bed in central Manchester. His pride and joy.”
“When our daughter, Charlotte, was born, James became a new man. He carried her everywhere, read her stories, spent every spare moment with her. Watching them, I thought myself the luckiest woman alive. Then, ten years ago, James was gone. He fought illness long, and we spent every penny we had. Afterward… silence. Emptiness. Like part of my heart had been torn out.”
After her father’s death, Charlotte drifted away. She moved out, wanting independence. I didn’t stop her—she was grown, after all. She visited, we talked, things seemed normal. But two years ago, she came to me and announced she wanted to take out a mortgage and buy her flat.
I sighed. I couldn’t help. Our savings—what little remained after James’s treatment—were nearly gone. My pension barely covers bills and medicine. Then she suggested… selling the house. “We could get you a small flat in the outskirts,” she said, “and the rest would cover my deposit.”
I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t about money—it was memory. These walls, every corner—James made them with his own hands. My whole life, all my happiness, lived here. How could I let that go? She shouted that her father had built it for her, that the house would be hers one day anyway, that I was selfish. I tried explaining I just wanted her to visit sometimes, to remember us… But she wouldn’t listen.
That day, she slammed the door and left. Silence ever since. No calls, no visits, not even on holidays. Later, a mutual friend mentioned she’d gotten the mortgage, working herself ragged—two jobs, always exhausted. No partner, no children. Even her friend hadn’t seen her in months.
And I… I just wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, hope it rings. It never does. I can’t even reach her now—she must’ve changed her number. Maybe she doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to hear me. Thinks I failed her that day. But I’m nearly seventy. I don’t know how many more evenings I’ll sit by this window, wishing. Or what I did to hurt her so.
