Now I’m seventy. Lonely as a shadow. A burden to my own daughter.
“Clarissa, please come over tonight, I beg you… I can’t manage alone…”
“Mum, I’m swamped with work! Stop whinging. Fine, I’ll come.”
I clutched the phone, tears rolling down my cheeks. Hurt. Aching. Realizing I was nothing but a nuisance to the only child I had. I remembered raising her alone, carrying everything on my back. Never once did I deny her a thing. The best for her. Everything for her. Maybe that was my mistake. I spoiled her too much, loved her too fiercely, believed too deeply that her happiness would be mine too.
When Clarissa was eleven, a man finally came into my life. For the first time in years, I felt like a woman. But she threw such a fit, I had to let him go. Though my heart screamed, I chose her. Always her. And now… now I’m seventy. Alone. A bundle of illnesses, barely any strength left, and the one person I relied on—my own daughter—brushes me off like a bothersome fly.
Clarissa’s been married twenty years. Three children, though I rarely see them. Why? I don’t know. Maybe they’ve been told I’m a “nuisance” too.
“Mum, what now?” Clarissa snapped as she barged in.
“I’ve been prescribed injections… You’re a nurse, could you help?”
“What, trek over here all week? Are you joking?”
“Clarissa, the pavements are pure ice—I can’t even make it to the clinic…”
“Well, pay me then! At least that’d make this worth my while! No one works for free!”
“I don’t have the money…”
“Brilliant! Ask someone else!” The door slammed.
Next morning, I left two hours early, shuffling down the icy pavement, gripping the referral, muttering, “You’ll manage, just get there…” Tears fell on their own—from pain, from loneliness, from words I’d never forget: “You’re a burden.”
At the clinic, a young woman approached. “Let the lady through! Are you unwell? You’re crying!”
“No, love. Not from pain. From life…”
She sat beside me, listened. I told her everything. Strangely, it was easier with a stranger than my own flesh and blood. Her name was Emily. Turned out, she lived nearby. After that day, she visited more often. Brought groceries, helped with prescriptions. Just listened.
On my birthday, Emily came alone. Clarissa didn’t even call.
“I had to come,” Emily said. “You remind me of my mum. Being near you is so peaceful…”
And then I knew—a stranger had given me more than the one I’d raised with a mother’s heart.
We grew close. Emily took me to her cottage, celebrated holidays, drove me to the countryside. Finally, I made the hard but honest choice—I signed the flat over to her. She refused at first, saying, “I don’t want anything from you.” But I insisted. She wasn’t here for money—that much was clear. She stayed. When no one else did.
Later, I moved in with her—living alone grew too hard. We sold my flat so Clarissa wouldn’t sue. And we forgot it all. Until we didn’t.
A year later, Clarissa appeared. Furious. Cold.
“You gave the flat to a stranger! You humiliated me in front of the whole family! It should’ve been mine! You should’ve just died!”
Emily’s husband threw her out before she could raise her voice at me.
So there it was. Strangers had become family. Emily was my daughter now. The one I carried under my heart? She betrayed me. When things got hard—she turned away. Too busy. Because I was “in the way.” Because a mother’s love isn’t capital. Isn’t an asset. Just a feeling. And feelings? No one needs those anymore.
