Now I’m 70 years old, and I’m as lonely as a stray dog. I’ve become nothing but a burden to my own daughter.
“Darling, could you come over this evening? I really need you—I can’t manage on my own.”
“Mum, I’m swamped with work! I’m fed up with your whinging. Fine, I’ll swing by…”
I couldn’t take it—the tears just came. It stung. It really stung. And then it all rushed back—the sleepless nights, the years I spent doing everything on my own to raise her, my Emily. I gave her my whole life. And this is her thanks?
Maybe it’s my own fault. I spoiled her too much, let her get away with too much. And when she was eleven, I met a man… for the first time in years, I felt like a woman again, loved, wanted. But Emily threw such a fit that I had to end it then and there, even though it tore me apart inside.
Now here I am at 70. Alone. Completely alone. My body’s falling apart, barely able to get around. And my only daughter? Married for twenty years, acting like she hasn’t got a mother at all. She’s got three kids—my grandkids—but I only ever see them in photos. Why? I don’t even know…
“What’s wrong now?” Emily snapped as she walked through the door.
“I’ve been prescribed injections. You’re a nurse—you could help me…”
“Seriously? You expect me to trek over here every single day? You’re having me on, Mum!”
“Em, I can’t even go outside—the pavements are icy…”
“Are you going to pay me for this? I don’t work for free, you know! I’m not running around for nothing!”
“I don’t have the money…”
“Right. Well, cheerio then. Find someone else!”
The next morning, I left two hours early to get to the clinic, dragging myself along the pavement, breathless, wiping away tears. Never thought I’d live to see the day…
“Madam, go ahead—you shouldn’t have to wait. Are you alright? You’re crying…”
It was a young woman, kind-eyed, stepping into the hall beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder.
“No, love. I’m crying over something else entirely…”
And just like that, we got talking. Like a confession, I poured my heart out—because there was no one left to listen. Her name was Lucy. Turns out, she lived just down the street from me. After that, she started visiting often, bringing groceries, helping around the house.
On my birthday, she was the only one who came. Just Lucy.
“I couldn’t *not* come today. You remind me so much of my mum… Being near you makes me feel warm inside,” she said, hugging me.
And that’s when I knew—she’d become closer than my own daughter. We’d go for walks, take little trips out of London, celebrate holidays together. She cared for me like family.
I thought about it for ages, but in the end, I made up my mind—I signed the flat over to Lucy. She tried to refuse, didn’t want to take it. But I insisted. It was my way of thanking her for the kindness she’d shown me. I knew—she wasn’t the sort to help just for gain.
Eventually, she took me in—it was too hard living alone. We sold my place—so Emily couldn’t drag it through court, stirring up trouble later.
And you know what? My daughter only remembered me a year after. Showed up, full of blame and threats. Screamed that I was a traitor, that she wished I’d drop dead. I suppose she’d had her eye on the flat, and I’d let her down. Lucy’s husband stepped between us, calm but firm:
“Leave. And don’t come back. You’re not welcome here.”
So there you have it. A stranger turned out to be more family than my own flesh and blood. It hurts, it’s humiliating, and it’s terrifying how easily people stop being human. But if I had to choose all over again? I’d pick Lucy every time. Because *she’s* my family. The real kind.
