Now I am seventy years old. I am as lonely as the last leaf on a tree. I have become a burden to my own daughter.
“Darling, please come over this evening… I beg you, I can’t manage without you.”
“Mum, I’m swamped with work! I’m sick of your whinging. Fine, I’ll come…”
I couldn’t hold back—the tears came. It hurt, deep down. And just like that, memories rushed in—the sleepless nights, the long years when I carried everything alone to raise her, my Sophie. I gave her my whole life. Is this my reward?
Perhaps it’s my own fault. I spoiled her too much, let too much slide. When she was eleven, I met a man… for the first time in years, I felt like a woman again, loved, wanted. But Sophie threw such a tantrum that I had to break it off, though my heart broke in two.
Now I’m seventy. And alone. Entirely alone. I’m full of aches, barely able to walk. And my only daughter… married twenty years now, acting as if she hasn’t a mother at all. Yes, she has three children—my grandchildren. But I only see them in photos. Why? I don’t even know…
“What’s wrong this time?” Sophie snapped as she walked in.
“I’ve been prescribed injections. You’re a nurse—you could help…”
“What, am I supposed to traipse over here every day now? Are you having a laugh, Mum?”
“Sophie, love, I can’t go out—the pavements are icy…”
“And are you going to pay me for it? I’m not a charity! I’m not doing this for free!”
“I haven’t got any money…”
“Well then, bye, Mum. Ask someone else!”
The next morning, I left two hours early to make it to the clinic. Slowly, I shuffled along the road, breath heavy, wiping tears. Never thought I’d live to see such a day…
“Ma’am, go straight in, please… Are you unwell? You’re crying.”
It was a young woman with kind eyes. She stopped beside me in the hallway, resting a hand on my shoulder.
“No, dear, I’m crying for quite another reason…”
And just like that, we talked. Like a confession, I poured out my heart—because there was no one left to listen. Her name was Emily. She lived just two streets away, it turned out. After that day, she began visiting often, bringing groceries, helping around the house.
On my birthday, she was the only one who came. Only Emily.
“I couldn’t let today pass without wishing you well. You remind me so much of my own mum… My heart feels light when I’m with you,” she said, hugging me.
That’s when I understood—she had become closer than my own flesh and blood. We took walks, drove out to the countryside, spent holidays together. She cared for me as if I were family.
After much thought, I made my decision—I signed the flat over to her. At first, she refused, tried to decline. But I insisted. It was my thanks for the warmth she had given me. I knew—she wasn’t the sort to do kindness for gain.
In time, she took me into her home—living alone was too hard now. We sold my flat so Sophie wouldn’t drag Emily through court, wouldn’t make a scene.
And wouldn’t you know, my daughter remembered me only a year later. She turned up, full of accusations and threats. Screaming that I was a traitor, that she wished me dead. Clearly, she’d expected the flat, and I’d “let her down.” Then Emily’s husband stood by the door and said, quiet but firm:
“Leave. And don’t come back. You’re not welcome here.”
So there you have it… Strangers turned out to be family, while my own child was anything but. It hurts, it shames, it frightens—how easily humanity slips away. But if I had to choose again, I’d still choose Emily. Because she’s my real family. The kind that stays.
