Now I am seventy. I am alone as a lone wolf. A burden to my own daughter.
“Darling, could you come over this evening? I need your help…”
“Mum, I’m swamped with work! Stop whinging. Fine, I’ll come.”
I stood by the phone, clutching the receiver, tears rolling down my cheeks. The hurt weighed heavy—not just from the words, but from the crushing realisation that my only daughter found me a nuisance. I remembered raising Darla alone, sacrificing everything for her. Never once did I deny her anything. She always had the best—all for her sake. Perhaps that was my mistake. I spoiled her too much, loved her too deeply, believed that her happiness would bring my own.
When Darla was eleven, a man came into my life. For the first time in years, I felt like a woman again. But Darla threw such a fit that I had to let him go. Though my heart ached, I chose my daughter. I always chose her. And now… now I’m seventy. Alone. Frail with illness, strength fading, and the one person I counted on—my own child—brushes me off like an irritating fly.
Darla’s been married twenty years with three children, yet I hardly see them. Why? I don’t know. Maybe they’ve been told I’m “too much” too.
“Mum, what now?” Darla snapped as she stormed in.
“The doctor prescribed injections… You’re a nurse. Could you…?”
“Expect me to trek here all week? Are you having me on?”
“Darla, the pavements are icy—I can’t make it to the clinic…”
“Then pay me, at least! No one works for free!”
“I haven’t got the money…”
“Brilliant! Find someone else!” The door slammed shut.
Next morning, I left two hours early, shuffling down the frosty pavement, clutching my prescription, whispering, “You’ll manage, just one step at a time…” But the tears came anyway. 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 alright? You’re crying!”
“No, love. It’s not the pain. It’s life…”
She sat with me, listening. I told her everything. Strangely, it was easier confiding in a stranger than my own flesh and blood. Her name was Emily. She lived nearby, as it turned out. From that day, she visited often, bringing groceries, helping with medicines, just listening.
On my birthday, Emily came alone. Darla didn’t even call. “I had to come,” Emily said. “You remind me so much of my mum. Being near you feels like home.”
That’s when 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 countryside cottage, celebrated holidays, drove me out of the city. Eventually, I made the hard but honest choice—I signed my flat over to her. She refused at first. “I don’t want anything from you.” But I insisted. It wasn’t about money; that was plain. She stayed when no one else would.
Later, I moved in with her—living alone grew too hard. We sold my flat so Darla couldn’t contest it in court. And for a while, we forgot the past.
A year later, Darla reappeared. Cold. Furious. “You gave your home to a stranger! Disgraced me in front of the family! It should’ve been mine! You should’ve died first!”
Emily’s husband sent her packing before she could raise her voice at me.
So here’s the truth—strangers can be closer than kin. Emily became the daughter I never had. And the one I carried under my heart? She walked away when things got hard. Too busy. Too inconvenienced. Because a mother’s love isn’t wealth. It isn’t an asset. It’s just love. And love, it seems, isn’t worth much anymore.
The lesson? Kindness isn’t bound by blood—but neglect leaves wounds no time can heal.
