Two years have passed. Not a single word from my daughter since then—she has cut me out of her life. And I’m nearly seventy now…
My neighbor, Evelyn Margaret, is known by everyone in our little neighborhood. She’s sixty-eight and lives alone. Sometimes I pop in with something for tea—just a friendly visit. She’s a kind, refined woman, always smiling, fond of sharing stories about trips she took with her late husband. But she rarely speaks of family. It wasn’t until just before the last holidays, when I brought her some treats as usual, that she unexpectedly opened up. 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 blankly. I didn’t pry—just brewed tea, set out biscuits, and sat beside her in silence. For a long while, she said nothing, as if wrestling with herself. Then, suddenly, she sighed heavily.
“It’s been two years… She hasn’t called once. No cards, no texts. I tried ringing—the number’s disconnected. I don’t even know where she lives anymore…”
She paused briefly. It was as if decades flashed before her eyes. Then, as if a dam had broken, Evelyn spoke.
“We had a happy family. Frederick and I married young but took our time before having children—we wanted to enjoy life first. His job allowed us to travel often. We were close, always laughing, in love with the home we built together. He made it with his own hands—a spacious three-bedroom in central London. His lifetime’s dream…”
When our daughter, Beatrice, was born, Frederick seemed to bloom all over again. He carried her everywhere, read her stories, spent every spare minute with her. Watching them, I thought myself the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, Frederick was gone. He was ill for a long time. We fought to the end, spent everything we had. And then… silence. Emptiness. Like a piece of my heart had been torn out.
After her father’s passing, Beatrice began pulling away. She rented a flat, wanted her own space. I didn’t object—she was grown, free to live her life. She still visited, we talked, everything seemed normal. Then, two years ago, she came to me and outright said she wanted to take out a mortgage and buy her own place.
I sighed and explained I couldn’t help. The savings Frederick and I had built were nearly gone—all spent on his treatment. My pension barely covers the bills and my medicines. Then she suggested… selling the house. *We could buy you a small flat on the outskirts*, she said, *and the rest could go toward my deposit.*
I couldn’t agree. It wasn’t about the money—it was about memory. These walls, every corner—Frederick made them with his own hands. This was where my happiness, my whole life, unfolded. How could I let it go? She shouted that her father had done all of it for *her*, that the house would be hers eventually anyway, that I was selfish. I tried to explain I just wanted her to come back one day and remember us… But she wouldn’t hear it.
That day, she slammed the door and left. Not a word since. No calls, no visits, not even on holidays. Later, a mutual acquaintance mentioned she’d taken the mortgage and was working herself to exhaustion—two jobs, always in a rush. No family, no children. Even her friend said she hadn’t seen her in six months.
And me… I just wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, hoping it will ring. But it never does. I can’t even reach her—she must have changed her number. Maybe she doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to hear me. Maybe she thinks I betrayed her that day, refusing to give in. But I’ll be seventy soon. I don’t know how much longer I’ll last in this house, how many more evenings I’ll sit by the window hoping. And I don’t know what I did to hurt her so deeply…
