Two years have passed. In all that time, my daughter hasn’t written a single word. She’s erased me from her life. And soon, I’ll be turning 70…
Everyone in the neighborhood knows my neighbor, Margaret Whitmore. She’s 68 and lives alone. Sometimes, I drop by with something for tea—just a friendly visit. She’s kind, refined, always smiling, and loves to talk about the trips she took with her late husband. But she rarely speaks of family. Then, just before the holidays, when I stopped by as usual with a little treat, she unexpectedly opened up. That evening, I heard a story that still chills me to the bone.
When I stepped into her flat, Margaret wasn’t herself. Usually lively and full of energy, that night she sat quietly, staring blankly. I didn’t pry—just made tea, set out the biscuits, and sat beside her in silence. She hesitated for a long moment, wrestling with something unspoken. Then, suddenly, she exhaled:
“It’s been two years… Not a single call. No card, no text. I tried ringing—the number doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t even know where she lives now.”
She paused briefly, as if decades flashed before her eyes. Then, as if a dam breaking, Margaret began to speak.
“We were a happy family. Peter and I married young, but we waited to have children—we wanted time for ourselves first. His job let us 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-bed in central London. His life’s dream.”
When our daughter, Emily, was born, Peter seemed to glow with new life. He carried her everywhere, read her stories, spent every free moment with her. I’d watch them and think I was the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, Peter was gone. He’d been ill for so long—we fought until the end, spent every penny we had. And then… silence. Emptiness. Like my heart had been ripped out.
After her father’s death, Emily began to drift away. She moved into a flat, wanted her own life. I didn’t object—she was an adult, after all. She still visited, we talked, things seemed normal. But two years ago, she came to me and announced she was taking out a mortgage to buy her own place.
I sighed and explained I couldn’t help. The savings Peter and I had built were nearly gone—his treatment took everything. My pension barely covers the bills and my medications. Then she suggested… selling the flat. “We could get one-bed somewhere on the outskirts,” she said. “The rest could go toward my deposit.”
I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t about the money—it was about memory. These walls, every corner—Peter made them with his hands. My whole life, my happiness, happened here. How could I let it go? She shouted that her father had done it all for her, that the flat would be hers someday anyway, that I was being selfish. I tried to explain I just wanted her to come back one day and remember us… But she wouldn’t listen.
That day, she slammed the door and left. Since then—nothing. No calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, I heard from a mutual friend she’d taken the mortgage and now works herself ragged—two jobs, always exhausted. No partner, no children. Even her friend 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—she must’ve changed her number. Maybe she doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to hear me. Thinks I betrayed her by saying no. But I’m nearly 70. I don’t know how much longer I’ll last in this flat, how many more evenings I’ll spend by the window, waiting. And I still don’t know what I did to hurt her so badly.
