Now I’m seventy. I’m all alone. To my daughter, I’m nothing but a burden. She’s been married for twenty years and prefers to forget I exist.
“Darling, could you come by this evening? I can’t manage on my own anymore…”
“Mum, I’m swamped with work! How much longer must I listen to your complaints? Fine, I’ll come…”
I burst into tears—not from anger, but from heartbreak. So many years I’d given to my only daughter, lived just for her, raised her single-handed… And this was my thanks. Perhaps I spoiled her too much.
When Daisy was eleven, I finally allowed myself a bit of happiness—I’d begun seeing a man. She threw such a tantrum that, heartbroken, I ended things with the man I truly loved. And she was pleased.
Now I’m seventy. And utterly alone. No support, no kindness—not physically, not emotionally, certainly not financially. My daughter’s been married twenty years. She has her own life. It’s easier for her if I don’t exist.
I have three grandchildren. But I barely see them. Why? I don’t know. Maybe because their mother sees no reason to keep in touch.
That day, I felt especially unwell. I called Daisy:
“The doctor’s given me a course of injections. You’re a nurse—could you do them?”
“You want me to drive over every single day? Are you joking?”
“Daisy, I can’t make it to the clinic. Snow, ice—I’ll fall…”
“Well, do you even have the money to pay me? I’m not doing this for free!”
“No… I haven’t got any…”
“Then that’s that, Mum! Find someone else!”
Silently, I hung up. The next morning, I left two hours early to walk to the clinic, clinging to fences and walls, crying—not from pain, but despair.
At the entrance, a woman approached me.
“Go straight in. Why are you crying? Are you in pain?”
“No,” I said. “It’s not pain…”
She stayed. We talked. For the first time in years, I told someone everything—because there was no one else left.
Her name was Julia. She lived a few doors down. After my appointment, she insisted I come for tea. From then on, we met—not often, but warmly.
On my seventieth birthday, Julia arrived with cake and candles. Daisy didn’t even call. And Julia said,
“You remind me so much of my mum… Being with you feels like home.”
Julia visited more often—helping around the house, bringing groceries, taking me to appointments. Sometimes I visited her—we’d sip tea, chat, celebrate little holidays. Once, we even took a trip together. For the first time in years, I felt alive again.
After much thought, I decided: I’d leave my two-bedroom flat to Julia. She refused, saying she wanted nothing. But I knew—she cared not for gain, but for kindness. Because I had become like a mother to her.
Later, I moved in with Julia—living alone had grown too hard. We sold the flat so Daisy wouldn’t even think of contesting it after my death.
Over a year passed without word from my daughter. Then, out of the blue, a knock at the door. There stood Daisy. No greeting, no concern—just fury.
“How could you? How could you give our home to a stranger? You ruined my life, and now you steal my inheritance?”
She screamed, cursed, wished me dead. Then Julia’s husband simply stood, walked to the door, and said,
“Leave. And don’t come back.”
We’ve not crossed paths since.
The worst part? It’s not that my own daughter cast me aside. It’s that it doesn’t hurt anymore. Because a stranger became more family than blood. Because some care not from duty, but from love.
Let them judge. Let them whisper. But after years of loneliness, I finally feel wanted—not as a burden, but as a person.
