Two years had passed. Not a single word from my daughter—she had erased me from her life. And soon, I’ll be 70…
Everyone in the neighborhood knows my neighbor, Margaret Whitmore. A kind, refined woman of 68, she lives alone. Sometimes, I drop by her flat with tea and biscuits—just to be neighborly. She’s always cheerful, full of stories about trips she took with her late husband, James. But she rarely speaks of family. Then, just before the holidays, when I brought over a small gift as usual, she suddenly opened up. That night, I heard a story that still chills me to the bone.
When I walked in, Margaret was unusually quiet. Normally lively, she sat motionless, staring blankly into the distance. I didn’t pry—just brewed the tea, set out the biscuits, and sat beside her in silence. For a long moment, she hesitated, wrestling with something unsaid. Then, with a trembling breath, she spoke.
“Two years… Not a call. Not a text. I tried ringing—the number’s disconnected. I don’t even know where she lives now.”
A pause. Her eyes flickered, as if decades of memories flashed before her. Then, the dam broke.
“We were happy once. James and I married young but waited to have children—we wanted time for ourselves first. His job took us everywhere—Paris, Florence, even New York. We built a life together, full of laughter, a home we loved. He renovated every inch of our three-bedroom house in Kensington—his pride and joy.”
“When our daughter, Emily, was born, James lit up like never before. He carried her everywhere, read her stories, devoted every spare moment to her. Watching them, I thought—I was the luckiest woman alive. Then, ten years ago… James was gone. He fought so hard. We spent every penny on his treatment. And then… silence. Emptiness. Like part of me had been ripped away.”
“After he died, Emily pulled away. Rented her own flat—wanted independence. I didn’t argue; she was grown. She visited, called… things were strained but civil. Then, two years ago, she came to me in a fury. Said she wanted a mortgage, needed her own place.”
“I told her I couldn’t help. Our savings—what little we’d had left after James—were gone. My pension barely covers bills and prescriptions. Then she suggested… selling the house. ‘Buy a small flat somewhere—outskirts, maybe—and use what’s left for my deposit.’”
“I couldn’t. This house *is* James. Every wall, every beam—his hands built them. All my happiness lives here. How could I just… let it go? She screamed that he’d done it all *for her*, that the house would be hers one day anyway, that I was being selfish. I tried to explain—I only wanted her to remember us, to come back someday… But she wasn’t listening.”
“That day, she slammed the door. Nothing since. No calls, no visits—not even on Christmas. Months later, an old friend mentioned Emily had taken the mortgage after all—working two jobs now, drowning in debt. No partner, no children. ‘Haven’t seen her in half a year,’ the friend said.”
“And me? I wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, praying it’ll ring. But it never does. Her number’s gone—changed, no doubt. She doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to hear me. Thinks I betrayed her. But I’m nearly 70. How many more years do I have in this house? How many evenings spent staring out the window, hoping? And God help me… I still don’t know what I did to deserve this.”
