Its been two years now, and my daughter has simply vanished from my life. Im pushing seventy, and she hasnt said a word to me since. Shes cut me out completely.
Everyone in the block knows my neighbour, Eleanor Thompson. Shes 68, lives on her own, and every now and then I pop round with a cuppa and a biscuit just a friendly dropby. Eleanors a kind, proper lady, always smiling, loves to reminisce about trips she took with her late husband. She rarely talks about family, but right before the holidays last year, when I showed up with some treats, she finally gathered the courage to spill the truth. Thats when I first heard the story that still tightens my chest.
When I walked in, Eleanor wasnt her usual cheery self. Usually lively, that evening she sat very still, staring at a point on the wall. I didnt press her for details, just poured the tea, set a little plate of shortbread down and sat opposite her. She stayed silent for a long stretch, as if wrestling with something inside. Then she let out a breath and said,
Two years no call, no letter. Ive tried getting hold of her the numbers dead. I dont even know where she lives now
She fell quiet. It was as if the years flashed before her eyes. And then, as if a dam broke, she went on.
We had a happy family, she began. Peter and I married young, but we didnt rush into having children we wanted a bit of time for ourselves first. His job let us travel a lot. We laughed a lot, built a home together. He built the place with his own hands a spacious threebedroom house right in the heart of Birmingham. It was his dream house
When our daughter, Emily, was born, Peter seemed to come alive. Hed carry her everywhere, read her stories, devote every minute to her. Watching them, I thought Id never need anything else. But ten years ago Peter passed away. Hed been ill for a long time; we fought until the end, drained every penny. Then silence. An emptiness, as if my heart had been ripped out.
After her father died, Emily started pulling away. She moved into her own flat, set up her own life. I didnt argue shes an adult, she can make her own choices. She still visited, we chatted, everything seemed fine. But two years ago she came over and said straight out she wanted to get a mortgage and buy a place of her own.
I sighed and told her honestly, I cant help with that. Almost everything we saved with Peter went on his treatment. My pension only covers the council tax and my medication. She then suggested we sell the house. Ill buy a onebedroom somewhere out of town, and the money we get can go towards your deposit, she said.
I couldnt do it. It wasnt just about money it was about memory. Every wall, every corner, Peter built himself. This is my whole life. How could I just hand it over? She shouted that her father had done everything for her, that the house would end up with her anyway, that I was being selfish. I tried to explain that I just wanted her to come back sometime, sit in the garden and remember us but she wouldnt listen.
She slammed the door and left. Since then its been quiet. No calls, no birthdays, nothing. I later heard from a friend that Emily did end up taking out a mortgage and now works two jobs, no rest, no family, no kids. Even her friends havent seen her for months.
And here I am, waiting. Every day I stare at my phone, hoping itll buzz. It stays dead. Shes probably changed her number, maybe she doesnt want to see me anymore. Think I betrayed her. But Im nearly seventy now. I dont know how many more evenings Ill spend by the window, waiting, how long Ill linger in this house. I just cant understand what I did to hurt her so much.
