Now I’m seventy. Alone as a lone tree. A burden to my own daughter.
“Darling, please come by tonight… I can’t manage on my own…”
“Mum, I’m swamped with work! Stop whinging. Fine, I’ll come.”
I clutched the phone, knuckles white, tears spilling down my cheeks—hot with hurt, with grief, with the crushing truth that my only child saw me as nothing but a nuisance. I remembered raising Emily alone, bending over backwards for her, never once saying no. The best for her—always for her. Maybe that was my mistake. I spoiled her rotten, loved her too much, foolishly believed that making her happy would make me happy too.
When Emily was eleven, a man came into my life. For the first time in years, I felt like a woman again. But Emily threw such a fit I had to let him go. My heart screamed, yet I chose her. I always chose her. And now… Now I’m seventy. Alone. A bundle of aches, no strength left, and the one person I dared to hope for—my daughter—brushed me off like a bothersome fly.
Emily’s been married twenty years. Three kids, but I hardly see them. Why? I don’t know. Maybe they’ve heard I’m a “pest” too.
“Mum, what now?” Emily stormed in, face twisted in irritation.
“The nurse says I need injections… You’re trained, couldn’t you—”
“What, trek over here every day? Are you joking?”
“Emily, the pavements are icy—I can’t make it to the clinic—”
“Then pay me! No one does this for free!”
“I don’t have the money—”
“Brilliant! Ask someone else!” The door slammed.
Next morning, I left two hours early—trudging through snow, gripping the referral slip tight, whispering, “You’ll manage, just get there…” But tears fell anyway. Not from pain. From loneliness. From words that would haunt me forever: “You’re a burden.”
At the clinic door, a young woman approached.
“Let Granny through! Are you unwell? You’re crying…”
“No, love. Not from pain. From life.”
She sat beside me, listened. I told her everything. Strangely, it was easier than talking to my own flesh and blood. Her name was Lucy—turned out, she lived down the road. After that day, she visited often. Brought groceries, sorted my meds. Just… listened.
On my birthday, Lucy came alone. Emily didn’t even call.
“I had to be here,” Lucy said. “You remind me of my mum. Being near you… it’s peaceful.”
That’s when I knew—a stranger had given me more than the one I’d raised with a mother’s heart.
We grew close. Lucy took me to her cottage, celebrated holidays, drove me to the countryside. Finally, I made a hard choice—signed the flat over to her. She refused at first: “I don’t want anything from you.” But I insisted. Not for money—that much was clear. She stayed when no one else did.
Later, I moved in with her—too frail to live alone. We sold my flat before Emily could contest it. Put it all behind us.
Until a year later. Emily returned, venom in her voice.
“You gave it to a stranger! Made me a laughingstock! It should’ve been mine! You should’ve just died!”
Lucy’s husband shoved her out before she could finish.
So there it was. Strangers became family. Lucy, my daughter in all but blood. And the one I carried under my heart? Betrayed me. Turned away when I needed her most. Too busy. Too inconvenienced. Because a mother’s love isn’t an asset. Just a feeling. And feelings? Nobody wants those anymore.
