Two years have gone by. Not a single word from my daughter since then—she’s erased me from her life. And here I am, nearly 70…
Everyone in the neighbourhood knows my neighbour, Margaret Williams. She’s 68, lives alone. Sometimes I pop round with something for tea—just being friendly, you know? She’s kind, refined, always smiling, loves chatting about the trips she took with her late husband. But she rarely talks about family. Then, just before the holidays, when I dropped by with a little treat as usual, she suddenly opened up. That’s when I heard the story that still chills me to the bone.
When I stepped into her flat, Margaret wasn’t herself. Normally lively, that evening she sat quiet, staring blankly. I didn’t press her—just made tea, set out the biscuits, and sat beside her in silence. For a long time, she didn’t speak, as if wrestling with herself. Then, finally, she let out a sigh.
“It’s been two years… Not one call. No cards, no texts. I tried ringing—her number doesn’t work anymore. I don’t even know where she lives now…”
She paused for a moment. You could almost see the years flashing before her eyes. Then, like a dam breaking, Margaret began to talk.
“We had a happy family. Tony and I married young, but we waited to have children—wanted time for ourselves first. His job let us travel loads. We were close, always laughing, loved our home—we put our hearts into it. He built us a nest, a proper three-bed in central Manchester. His pride and joy.”
“When our daughter, Emily, was born, Tony lit up like never before. Carried her everywhere, read her stories, spent every spare minute with her. Watching them, I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, Tony passed. He fought for so long—we spent everything we had trying to save him. Then… silence. A hollowness. Like my heart had been torn out.”
“After Tony died, Emily started pulling away. Got her own place, wanted independence. I didn’t stop her—she was grown, after all. She visited, we talked, things seemed normal. But two years ago, she came over and told me straight out—she was taking out a mortgage to buy her own flat.”
“I took a breath and explained I couldn’t help. The savings Tony and I had? Nearly gone—his treatment ate through it. My pension barely covers the bills and my meds. Then she suggested… selling the flat. Said we could get me a one-bed somewhere on the outskirts, and the rest would go toward her deposit.”
“I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t about the money—it was the memories. These walls, every corner—Tony built them with his own hands. My entire life, my happiness, happened here. How could I let that go? She shouted, saying her dad did all this for *her*, that the flat would be hers one day anyway, that I was being selfish. I tried to explain—I just wanted her to come back someday and remember us. But she wasn’t listening.”
“That day, she slammed the door and left. Not a word since. No calls, no visits—not even on holidays. Later, a mutual friend mentioned she’d taken the mortgage and now works herself ragged—two jobs, constantly exhausted. No partner, no kids. Her mate hasn’t seen her in months.”
“And me? I just wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, hoping it’ll ring. But it never does. I can’t even reach her anymore—she must’ve changed her number. Maybe she doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to hear me. Thinks I failed her by not giving in that day. But I’m nearly 70. I don’t know how long I’ll last in this flat, how many more evenings I’ll sit by the window, waiting. And I don’t know what I did that hurt her so much…”
