A Gift from a Daughter: The Growling Silence of Old Age
Mildred Wilson had been bustling about the kitchen since dawn—chopping salads, simmering soup, roasting garlic chicken, polishing the crystal vase for flowers. Twice she hurried to the shops, returning with a cake and bags heavy with groceries, only to bump into her neighbour by the front steps.
“Got a party on, Mildred?” asked Lydia Harper, an old friend who never left her perch on the bench outside.
“Oh, of course! My Emmeline’s coming home today!” Mildred beamed, hefting the bags as she struggled up the stairs.
Lydia just tutted. “Still doting on that girl, are you? And yet she can’t even ring her own mother. Pitiful.”
The old woman had long grumbled that Mildred fussed too much over her grown daughter. Emmeline rarely called, yet her mother still peered out the window each day, hoping.
“Honestly, Mildred, you’re just tormenting yourself. These days, the elderly are nothing but a nuisance. Should’ve put her in her place years ago, instead of running about with cakes.”
But Mildred couldn’t help it. A heart isn’t a light switch. Emmeline was the only reason she still rose from bed each morning, though she knew the love she gave was seldom returned.
When Emmeline finally rang and curtly announced, “I’ll be by this evening,” Mildred’s heart hammered like a blacksmith’s mallet. She rushed about the flat—fluffing pillows, laying fresh linen, setting out another dish. Then—the doorbell.
There stood her daughter: tall, sharp-eyed, cold behind dark glasses, a little dog on a lead beside her.
“Hello, Mum,” Emmeline said, without a trace of warmth.
“Darling, come in! Freshen up—I’ve laid out supper!”
Mildred scurried to the kitchen, clattering plates, arranging dishes feverishly. Emmeline followed in silence, scanning the room with detachment.
“Sit, love—sausages, salad, your favourite sponge!”
“Mum, I’ll only stay a minute. I’m moving abroad. Won’t be back for years—flights are dear, and it’s a bother. This is Bella. Some man gave her to me. Useless, really. Too much trouble to take along. You’re alone anyway—she might as well stay. She’s quiet.”
Mildred froze. The cake, the sausages, the fresh milk—all of it now meant nothing. She stared at her daughter, still shielded behind those glasses.
“Right,” she managed.
“Thanks, Mum. Love you.” Emmeline pecked her cheek, pressed the lead into her hand, and was gone.
Minutes later, Mildred stood in the hall, cradling the little dog. She’d never been fond of pets. With her bad back, meagre pension, and endless weariness—what was she to do with a dog?
“Come on, Bella… Maybe Mrs. Higgins will take you.”
But the moment her neighbour opened the door, she scoffed, “Lost your senses, Mildred? Last thing I need’s a mangy mutt! It’ll ruin my carpets!”
“She isn’t mangy—Emmeline’s fussy about such things. Please, Lydia, you had dogs in the country…”
“Use your head. I warned you—stop clinging to that girl. Now look. Got yourself a ‘gift.’ Just take it to the shelter.”
The dog said nothing, only watched Mildred with solemn eyes. Fear, resignation—and a familiar ache.
“Suppose we’re alike,” Mildred whispered. “Neither of us wanted.”
Lydia huffed. “Do as you like—just don’t drag me into it.”
The hard days began. Bella needed walking five times daily. Mildred’s back ached, her legs failed her. Yet the dog waited—never whined, never barked. In rain, she sat by the door; in heat, she curled quietly under the bed. Slowly, Mildred felt… less alone.
Even when Lydia stopped speaking to her. Yes, the friendship ended—but the house was no longer empty.
A year passed. Mildred’s last. Her heart gave out. Neighbours found her in the kitchen, the dog still at the door—silent, refusing food.
A week later, Emmeline swept in unannounced.
“Ugh, the stench,” she muttered. Bella growled.
“Quiet. Your mistress is gone. I’ll have to take you—need to sell this place.”
At the graveside, Emmeline tossed the lead aside.
“Thanks for the flat and the money. And the dog—you can keep her.”
Bella sniffed the fresh earth, then curled atop the mound. She knew—this was home.
Two days passed. She didn’t leave. Didn’t eat.
On the third day, Lydia arrived with flowers.
“There you are, little one,” she murmured, spotting the dog by the grave. “Ah, Mildred… Gave everything to that girl. And in the end… only the dog stayed.”
She knelt, stroking the thin fur.
“Right. Come on, then. Can’t leave you here. If Mildred could manage, so can I. Least I can do is be decent.”
As she lifted Bella, the clouds parted—sunlight breaking through for the first time in that long, grey week.
