Now I’m seventy. I’m all alone. To my daughter, I’m just a burden. She’s been married for twenty years and prefers to forget I even exist.
“Sweetheart, could you come over this evening? I can’t manage on my own anymore…”
“Mum, I’m swamped with work! How much longer do I have to listen to your complaints? Fine, I’ll come…”
I burst into tears—not from anger, but from heartbreak. All those years I’d given to my only daughter, raising her alone, living only for her… And this was my reward. Maybe I spoiled her too much.
When Daisy was eleven, I allowed myself happiness for the first time in years—I started seeing a man. She threw such a tantrum that, sobbing, I ended things with someone I truly loved. And she was pleased.
Now I’m seventy. Alone. No support, no kindness—not physically, not emotionally, certainly not financially. My daughter’s been married two decades now. She has her own life. It’s easier for her to pretend I don’t exist.
I have three grandchildren. I barely see them. Why? I don’t know. Maybe because their mother doesn’t think it’s worth keeping in touch.
That day, I felt especially unwell. I called Daisy.
“I’ve been prescribed injections. You’re a nurse—could you give them to me?”
“What, you expect me to come over every day? Is this a joke?”
“Daisy, I can’t make it to the clinic. Snow, ice—I’ll fall!”
“Do you even have the money to pay me? I’m not doing this for free!”
“I… I don’t have it.”
“Well then, Mum, figure it out yourself!”
I hung up quietly. The next morning, I left two hours early, shuffling along fences and walls, tears streaming. Not from pain, but from despair.
At the clinic entrance, a woman approached me.
“Go right in. Why are you crying? Are you in pain?”
“No,” I said. “It’s not that kind of hurt.”
She didn’t leave. We talked. For the first time in years, I told someone everything. Because there was no one else.
Her name was Julia. She lived in the next building. After my appointment, she insisted I come for tea. We started meeting—not often, but meaningfully.
On my seventieth birthday, Julia brought cake and candles. Daisy didn’t even call. Julia said, “You remind me of my mum. Being with you just… it feels warm.”
She visited more often—helped around the house, brought groceries, took me to appointments. Sometimes I’d visit her, sipping tea, chatting, celebrating little things. Once, we even went on a short holiday. For the first time in years, I felt alive.
After much thought, I decided to leave my flat to Julia. She refused, saying she wanted nothing. But I knew—she cared without strings. Just because she was kind. Because I’d become like family.
Later, I moved in with her—living alone was too hard. We sold the flat to stop Daisy from contesting the will.
I’d heard nothing from my daughter in over a year. Then, like a bolt from the blue—she was at the door. No hello, no how are you. Just screaming.
“How could you?! How could you give everything to a stranger?! You ruined my life, and now you steal my inheritance?!”
She screamed, cursed, wished me dead. Then Julia’s husband stepped in.
“Leave. And don’t come back.”
We haven’t seen her since.
You know the worst part? Not that my own flesh and blood abandoned me. But that it doesn’t hurt anymore. Because a stranger became closer than family. Because some people care not out of duty, but from the heart.
Let them judge. Let them whisper. After years, I finally feel needed—not as a burden, but as a person.
