**Diary Entry – 15th November**
Now I’m seventy. Alone as a lone tree in a field. To my daughter, I’m nothing but a burden. She’s been married twenty years and prefers to act as though I don’t exist.
“Sophie, love, could you come over this evening? I’m really struggling on my own…”
“Mum, I’m up to my ears in work! How many times must I listen to your whinging? Fine, I’ll come.”
I wept—not from anger, but from heartache. All those years I gave to my only daughter, living solely for her, raising her alone… And this is my thanks. Perhaps I spoiled her too much.
When Sophie was eleven, I allowed myself happiness for the first time in years—a relationship with a good man. She threw such a tantrum that I ended it in tears, though I truly loved him. She was satisfied, of course.
Now here I am at seventy. Alone. No support, no kindness—not emotionally, not physically, and certainly not financially. My daughter’s been married two decades, busy with her own life. It’s easier for her to forget me.
I have three grandchildren, but I barely see them. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps because their mother can’t be bothered to stay in touch.
That day, I felt worse than usual. I called Sophie.
“The doctor prescribed injections. You’re a nurse—could you give them to me?”
“You expect me to come every single day? Are you joking?”
“Sophie, I can’t make it to the clinic. The snow, the ice—I’ll fall!”
“Have you even got the money to pay me? I won’t come for free!”
“I… I haven’t.”
“Well, that’s that then, Mum! Ask someone else!”
I hung up without a word. The next morning, I left two hours early to reach the clinic, clinging to fences and walls as I walked, crying—not from pain, but sheer despair.
At the clinic entrance, a woman approached me.
“Go ahead—skip the queue. Why are you crying? Are you hurt?”
“No,” I said. “It’s not pain.”
She didn’t leave. We talked. For the first time in years, I told someone everything—because there was no one left to tell.
Her name was Emily. She lived just down the road. After my appointment, she insisted I come for tea. From then on, we met. Not often, but honestly.
On my seventieth birthday, Emily arrived with a cake and candles. Sophie didn’t even call. Emily smiled and said, “You remind me so much of my mum. Being with you feels like home.”
She started visiting more—helping with chores, bringing groceries, accompanying me to appointments. Sometimes I’d go to hers; we’d share tea, stories, even small celebrations. Once, we took a trip to a countryside retreat. For the first time in decades, I felt alive again.
After much thought, I decided to leave my two-bed flat to Emily. She protested, saying she wanted nothing. But I knew—she cared without greed. Just because she’s a decent person. To her, I’d become like a mother.
Eventually, I moved in with her—living alone had become too hard. We sold the flat so Sophie wouldn’t drag Emily to court after I’m gone.
A year passed without a word from my daughter. Then, out of the blue—a knock at the door. There stood Sophie. No greeting, just rage.
“How could you? How could you give the flat to a stranger? You ruined my life, and now you’ve stolen my inheritance!”
She screamed, cursed, even wished me dead. Then Emily’s husband simply stood, walked to the door, and said, “Leave. And don’t come back.”
We haven’t spoken since.
The worst part? It’s not that my own flesh and blood abandoned me. It’s that I don’t even care anymore. Because a stranger gave me more love than family ever did. Some people care not out of duty, but because they choose to.
Let them judge. Let them whisper. For the first time in years, I feel wanted—not as a burden, but as a person.
