The Gift from a Daughter: The Growling Silence of Old Age
Margaret Whitmore had been bustling in the kitchen since dawn—chopping salads, stirring soup, roasting a garlic chicken in the oven, polishing the crystal vase for flowers. Twice, she hurried to the shop, returning with cake and overstuffed bags, only to bump into her neighbour at the front gate.
“Celebrating something, Maggie?” asked Lydia Harper, an old friend who never strayed far from the bench by the entrance.
“Of course I am! Emily’s coming home, my darling girl!” Margaret beamed, cheeks flushed, then heaved the bags up the stairs with a grunt.
“Honestly,” Lydia muttered, shaking her head. “Still fussing over that grown woman. The girl can’t even ring her own mother. Disgraceful.”
She’d long complained that Margaret doted too much on her distant daughter. Emily rarely called, yet her mother still peered out the window every evening, waiting.
“Maggie, love, you’re torturing yourself. These days, the elderly are just a nuisance. Should’ve put your foot down years ago, not run yourself ragged with cakes.”
But Margaret couldn’t help it. The heart isn’t a switch. Emily was the only reason she dragged herself out of bed each morning, even if the love returned grew thinner each year.
When Emily finally called—stiff, impersonal—”I’ll stop by tonight,” Margaret’s heart hammered like a drum. She flitted about the flat, smoothing fresh sheets, cooking one extra dish… And then—the doorbell.
There stood her grown daughter: tall, slender, cold behind dark glasses, a tiny dog at her side on a leash.
“Hello, Mum,” Emily said, no warmth in her voice.
“Oh, darling! Come in, wash up, I’ve laid everything out!”
Margaret darted to the kitchen, clattering plates, arranging dishes frantically. Emily followed in silence, scanning the room with detached indifference.
“Sit down, love—meat pies, salad, your favourite cake!”
“Mum, I can’t stay. I’m moving away—far. Too expensive to come back, so we won’t see each other for years, probably. This is Daisy. Ex gave her to me—no idea why. Can’t take her with me. You’re alone anyway. She’s quiet, only a year and a half.”
Margaret froze. The cake, the pies, the fresh milk, the jam—all of it meant nothing now. She stared at her daughter, still hidden behind those glasses.
“Alright,” she managed.
“Thanks, Mum. Love you.” Emily pecked her cheek, handed over the leash, and vanished.
Minutes later, Margaret stood in the hallway, holding the small dog. She’d never cared for pets. With her bad back, meagre pension, and constant exhaustion—what was she to do now?
“Come on, Daisy… Let’s try Mrs. Harper. Maybe she’ll take you.”
But the moment Lydia opened the door, she recoiled.
“Lost your mind, Maggie? The last thing I need is your mangy mutt! She’ll ruin my furniture, bring in fleas!”
“She’s clean—Emily’s particular. Please, Lyd, you kept dogs in the countryside!”
“Use your head! I warned you—don’t grovel for her scraps. And now? Got yourself a ‘gift.’ Dump her somewhere.”
The little dog stayed silent, just watching with dark eyes—fear, resignation, and… a familiar pain.
“Seems we’re the same, you and I,” Margaret whispered. “Nobody wants us.”
“Do what you want,” Lydia huffed. “Just leave me out of it.”
The hard days began. Daisy needed walking five times a day. Margaret’s back ached, her legs gave out. Yet the dog never whined, never barked. In rain, she waited patiently by the door. In heat, she curled quietly under the bed. Slowly, Margaret felt… less alone.
Even as Lydia stopped speaking to her. Yes, the friendship ended—but a new soul filled the house.
A year passed. The last year of Margaret’s life. Her heart gave out. Neighbours found her in the kitchen, but Daisy never left the door—no barks, no food touched.
A week later, Emily returned. Unannounced.
“Ugh, what’s that smell?” she sneered. Daisy growled.
“Quiet! Your owner’s gone. I’ll have to take you. Selling the flat—no use for you here.”
At the fresh grave, Emily stood stiffly.
“Thanks for the flat and the money. And—here’s Daisy. Keep her.”
She dropped the leash and walked away.
The dog sniffed the mound of earth, then lay beside it. She knew—this was home now.
Two days passed. Daisy didn’t move. Didn’t eat.
On the third day, Lydia arrived with flowers.
“There you are, little one,” she murmured, spotting the dog by the grave. “Oh, Maggie… Gave everything to that girl. And in the end… only the dog stayed.”
She knelt, stroking the thin fur.
“Right. Come on—I’ll take you. Can’t leave you like this. If Maggie could manage… so can I. Least I can do.”
She lifted Daisy into her arms. Above, the clouds parted—sunlight breaking through for the first time in a long, grey week.
