Two years have slipped by, and my daughter has vanished from my life while Im nearing seventy. She has not spoken a word to me since; she erased me from her world, and I linger here, almost sixtynine, in the quiet of my flat.
Everyone in the block knows Mrs. Hargreaves, the neighbour next door. Shes sixtyeight, lives alone, and I sometimes pop over with a tin of biscuits for tea, just as a kind gesture. Shes a gentle, wellmannered lady, forever smiling, fond of recalling trips she once took with her late husband. She rarely talks about family, but on the last festive weekend, when I arrived with a slice of cake, she finally gathered the courage to speak the truth. It was the first time I heard a story that still makes my heart tighten.
When I stepped inside, Mrs. Hargreaves was far from her usual cheer. Normally lively, that evening she sat mute, staring at a point on the wall. I didnt probe; I poured tea, set a small plate of shortbread beside her, and took the seat opposite. She kept silent, as if wrestling with something deep inside, then let out a breath and said:
Two years no call, no letter. I tried to dial her number, but its dead. I dont even know where she lives now
She fell silent. It seemed as though the years flashed before her eyes. Then, as if a dam broke, she began to speak.
We had a happy family once. Charles and I married young, but we didnt rush to have childrenfirst we wanted time for ourselves. His job let us travel, and we laughed a lot, turning our house into a home together. He built a cosy nest with his own handsa spacious terraced property in the centre of Manchester. It was the dream of his life
When our daughter, Emily, was born, Charles seemed to come alive. He would cradle her, read fairy tales, devote every minute to her. I watched them and thought: I needed nothing more. Yet ten years ago Charles died. He had been ill for a long time; we fought on until the end, spending everything we had. Then silence. An emptiness, as if someone had ripped my heart out.
After her father’s death, Emily began to drift away. She rented a flat and moved out on her own. I didnt argueshe was an adult, free to build her own life. She still visited, we chatted, and everything appeared normal. But two years ago she turned up and said plainly she wanted to take out a mortgage and buy a house.
I sighed and told her honestly: I cant help. Almost all the savings Charles and I had are gonespent on his treatment. My pension barely covers the council tax and my prescriptions. She then suggested we sell the house. Ill buy a modest one out in the country and the proceeds will be your deposit, she said.
I could not. It wasnt about the moneyit was about memory. Every wall, every nook was built by Charles. This place holds my whole life. How could I hand it over? She shouted that her father had done everything for her, that the house would be hers anyway, that I was selfish. I tried to explain that I only wanted her to come back someday, stand in this room, and remember us but she wouldnt listen.
She slammed the door and left. Since then, only silenceno calls, no congratulations. By chance, a friend told me Emily did get a mortgage and now works two jobs, never stopping to rest. No family, no children. The friend hasnt seen her for half a year.
And I I wait. Every day I stare at my phone, hoping for a ring. It stays dead. She must have changed the number, perhaps she doesnt want to see me. She might think I betrayed her. But Im almost seventy now. I dont know how much longer Ill remain in this flat, how many evenings Ill spend by the window waiting. I still cant understand what I did to hurt her so deeply.
