For two years now, my daughter’s voice has been absent from my life. Emily posts pictures on social media, chats with friends, lives her own existence—but not a word to me. She’s a grown woman now, with a two-year-old daughter and a husband, settled in their own flat in Manchester. I’ve always been strict—with myself and everyone around me. Emily was no exception.
To be a parent is to demand the best. I wanted Emily to excel in school, help around the house, take care of herself. Even now, with her own family, I can’t ignore her shortcomings. When I visited, my eyes caught the mess—clothes strewn about, dishes piled in the sink, chaos in the cupboards. “How can you live like this?” I’d ask, straightening the folded jumpers on the shelf. Emily would sigh like a moody teenager and start tidying, if only to hush my scolding.
That little girl is growing up in neglect, with plates left to crust over in the sink for days, and her husband, in my eyes, is utterly useless. Who else but a mother would tell her the truth? But a year ago, everything changed. Emily suddenly stopped answering my calls. The night before, I’d mentioned how my niece’s three-year-old was already reading. Emily frowned, asking why I insisted on comparing her child to others.
How could I not, when the difference was so plain? That was our last conversation. Later, I learned she’d changed the locks and refused to see me. I thought it was just a passing storm—she’d come to her senses, apologize. But time stretched on, and her silence deepened.
In August, it was my birthday. I waited for a message, anything—but Emily didn’t spare me a thought. The next day, anger boiling over, I rang her from another number. “If you won’t speak to me,” I snapped, “then get out of my flat!”
The truth was, six years ago, right before her wedding, I’d signed the flat over to her. Her husband barely made a pittance, and I wanted to help—I had the means. But now, cut out of her life, she could find somewhere else to live! Her reply was icy: the deeds were signed, the flat legally hers, and I had no right to throw her out.
Was I wrong? If she’s so independent, let her prove it by walking away from what I gave her! I handed her everything, and in return? Nothing. My heart aches, but I won’t forgive betrayal.
