Now I’m seventy. Lonely as a church mouse. A burden to my own daughter.
“Darling, could you come round this evening? I really need help…”
“Mum, I’m swamped at work! Stop whinging. Fine, I’ll pop in.”
I stood clutching the phone, tears rolling down my cheeks. Hurt. Heartbroken. Realising I’d become nothing but a nuisance to my only child. I remembered raising Darcie alone, doing everything for her. Never once had I said no. The best for her—always for her. Maybe that was my mistake. I spoiled her rotten, loved her too much, believed making her happy would make me happy too.
When Darcie was eleven, a man came into my life. For the first time in years, I felt like a woman. But Darcie threw such a fit, I had to end it. Even though my heart screamed, I chose her—just like always. And now? Now I’m seventy. Alone. A bundle of aches, barely any strength left, and the one person I counted on—my daughter—brushes me off like a pesky fly.
Darcie’s been married twenty years. Three kids, though I barely see them. Why? No clue. Maybe they’ve been told I’m “clingy” too.
“Mum, what now?” Darcie huffed as she barged in.
“I’ve been prescribed injections… You’re a nurse—could you help?”
“What, trek over here every day? Are you joking?”
“Darcie, it’s icy out—I can’t even make it to the clinic…”
“Well, pay me then! No one works for free!”
“I haven’t got the money…”
“Brilliant! Ask someone else!”—and she slammed the door.
Next morning, I left two hours early. Slowly shuffling down the snowy pavement, clutching my referral, muttering, “You’ll manage, just get there…” But the tears came anyway. From the pain. The loneliness. That phrase I’d never forget: “You’re a burden.”
At the clinic, a young woman approached. “Let this lady through! Are you alright? You’re crying…”
“No, love. Not from pain. Just… life.”
She sat with me, listened. I spilled everything—easier with a stranger than my own flesh and blood. Her name was Emily. Turned out, she lived nearby. After that day, she visited often. Brought groceries, sorted my meds. Just listened.
On my birthday, Emily came alone. Darcie didn’t even call.
“I had to come,” Emily said. “You remind me so much of my mum. Being with you feels like home.”
That’s when it hit me—a stranger had given me more than the one I’d raised with all my heart.
We grew close. Emily took me to her cottage, celebrated holidays together, trips to the countryside. Finally, I made the hard but honest choice—I signed my flat over to her. She refused at first—”I don’t want anything from you.” But I insisted. She wasn’t in it for money; that was plain. She was just there. When no one else was.
Later, I moved in with her—living alone got too hard. We sold my flat to stop Darcie from suing. And put it all behind us.
Until a year later. Darcie showed up. Furious. Cold.
“You gave your flat to a stranger! You’ve humiliated me! It should’ve been mine! You should’ve just died!”
Emily’s husband escorted her out before she could finish.
So here’s the thing. Strangers became family. Emily’s the daughter I never had. And the one I carried in my womb? She betrayed me. When things got tough, she turned away. Too busy. Too inconvenienced. Because a mother’s love isn’t an asset. It’s just a feeling. And feelings? Nobody seems to want those anymore.
