Today, I am seventy years old. I am as lonely as a forgotten streetlamp. I have become my own daughter’s burden.
“Darling, could you come over this evening? I don’t think I can manage without you.”
“Mum, I’m swamped with work! I’m tired of your constant whining. Fine, I’ll come…”
I couldn’t hold back—I wept. It stung, deeper than I could bear. And then, like a cruel echo, memories rushed in—sleepless nights, years upon years of carrying the weight alone, all to raise her, my Emily. I gave her everything. Is this how she repays me?
Perhaps it’s my own fault. She was too spoiled, too indulged. And when she was eleven, I met a man… for the first time in years, I felt like a woman again, loved, wanted. But Emily threw such a fit that I had to cut ties, though it tore my heart in two.
Now I am seventy. Alone. Utterly alone. My body aches, and walking is a struggle. My only daughter… married for twenty years, acting as though I don’t exist. Yes, she has three children—my grandchildren. But I only see them in photographs. Why? I don’t even know.
“What’s wrong this time?” Emily snapped as she stepped inside.
“The doctor says I need injections. You’re a nurse—you could help…”
“You expect me to drop everything and come here every day? Are you joking, Mum?”
“Emily, I can’t go outside—the pavements are pure ice…”
“Are you going to pay me for it, then? I’m not running a charity! I won’t drive here for free!”
“I don’t have the money…”
“Well, then, goodbye, Mum. Find someone else.”
The next morning, I left two hours early to make it to the clinic. I shuffled along the roadside, gasping for breath, wiping tears. Never did I imagine my life would come to this…
“Madam, please, go ahead of the queue… Are you unwell? You’re crying?”
It was a young woman with kind eyes. She stopped beside me in the corridor, her hand resting on my shoulder.
“No, dear, these tears are for something else entirely…”
And so we talked. Like a confession, I poured out my heart—simply because there was no one left to listen. Her name was Lucy. As it turned out, she lived just down the road from me. After that day, she began visiting often, bringing groceries, helping with chores.
On my birthday, only she came. Only Lucy.
“I couldn’t let your special day pass. You remind me so much of my own mum… Being near you feels like home,” she said, hugging me.
And in that moment, I realised—she had grown dearer to me than my own blood. We took walks, drove into the countryside, spent holidays together. She cared for me as family should.
After much thought, I made my choice—I signed the house over to Lucy. At first, she refused, hesitant. But I insisted. This was my thanks for the warmth she had given me. I knew—she wasn’t the sort who loved for gain.
Eventually, she took me in—living alone had become too hard. We sold my house, sparing Lucy the legal battle Emily would have surely brought.
And do you know when my daughter remembered me? A year later. She stormed in, hurling accusations, wishing me dead. She had counted on the house, and I’d “disappointed” her. Lucy’s husband stood at the door, his voice quiet but firm.
“Leave. And don’t come back. You’re not welcome here.”
So there it was. Strangers had become my family, while my own flesh and blood turned cruel. It’s bitter, it’s shameful, it’s terrifying how easily humanity slips away. But if I had to choose again, I would still choose Lucy. Because she is my family. My real one.
