Now I am seventy years old. I am utterly alone, a burden to my own daughter.
“Darling, come over this evening… Please, I can’t manage without you.”
“Mum, I’m swamped with work! I’m tired of your whinging. Fine, I’ll come.”
I couldn’t help it—I wept. It stung, more than I could bear. And then, like a cruel trick of memory, the sleepless nights rushed back, the long years I struggled alone to raise her, my Emily. I gave her my whole life. Was this her thanks?
Perhaps it was my fault. I spoiled her, let her have her way too often. And when she was eleven, I met a man… For the first time in years, I felt like a woman again—loved, desired. But Emily threw such a fit that I had to end things, though it shattered my heart.
Now, at seventy, I am entirely alone. My body is frail, walking a struggle. And my only daughter? Married for twenty years, and it seems easier for her to pretend I don’t exist. She has three children—my grandchildren. Yet 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 prescribed injections. You’re a nurse—could you help?”
“What, am I supposed to drop everything and come here every day? You’re having a laugh, Mum!”
“Emily, I can’t go out—the pavements are icy…”
“Are you going to pay me, then? I’m not running a charity. I won’t be coming for free!”
“I haven’t got the money…”
“Well, then—goodbye, Mum. Ask someone else.”
The next morning, I left two hours early, shuffling toward the clinic, breath ragged, wiping tears. Never did I think I’d live to see the day…
“Madam, go ahead of the queue, please… Are you unwell? You’re crying.”
A young woman with kind eyes stood beside me in the corridor, her hand on my shoulder.
“No, dear. I’m crying for quite another reason.”
And just like that, we talked. I poured out my heart—confessed it all—because there was no one left to listen. Her name was Sarah. She lived just two streets away. After that day, she began visiting often, bringing groceries, helping around the house.
On my birthday, only she came. Only Sarah.
“I couldn’t let the day pass without wishing you well. You remind me so much of my own mother… Being near you warms my heart,” she said, hugging me.
Then I understood—she had become dearer to me than my own flesh and blood. We took walks, drove to the countryside, celebrated holidays together. She cared for me like family.
After much thought, I made my decision—I signed the flat over to her. At first, she refused. But I insisted. It was my gratitude for the kindness she’d shown. I knew—she wasn’t the sort who helped for gain.
In time, she took me in. The flat was sold, so Emily couldn’t fight her for it.
And would you believe it? My daughter remembered me only a year later. She came shouting, calling me a traitor, wishing me dead. She must have expected the flat—I’d “disappointed” her. Then Sarah’s husband stood in the doorway, calm but firm.
“Leave. And don’t come back. You’re not welcome here.”
So there it was… Strangers had become family, while my own child turned away. The cruelty of it burns, humiliates, terrifies—how easily humanity slips away. But if I had to choose again, I’d still pick Sarah. Because she is my family. The real kind.
Sometimes love isn’t in the blood—it’s in the heart that chooses to stay.
