The Split with Her Daughter: A Shadow of the Past
For two years now, Margaret Thompson has not spoken to her daughter, Charlotte. A year ago, without any explanation, Charlotte stopped answering her calls. She changed the locks on her flat in a small town by the River Thames and made it clear she no longer wished to see her mother in her home. Margaret still struggles to accept this rift, and her heart aches with every memory of her daughter.
“It’s been two years since we last spoke,” Margaret sighs, her voice trembling with restrained emotion. “Lottie lives her own life—posting photos on social media, meeting friends. But not a single call or message for me. She’s grown now, with a three-year-old daughter and a husband. They have their own place. I’ve always been strict—with myself, with others, and with Lottie too. I believe a parent must set high standards. I wanted her to study hard, help around the house, take care of herself.”
Margaret never softened her principles, even after Charlotte started her own family. She visited regularly, but each time, the encounter became an ordeal. “How can you live in such a mess?” she’d scold, rearranging the cupboards as if Charlotte were still ten. She pointed out unwashed dishes, criticised her parenting, and didn’t hesitate to berate Charlotte’s husband: “Edward is useless—always short of money!” Margaret believed she alone had the right to speak harsh truths, no matter how painful.
Then, a year ago, everything changed. “I called Lottie as usual,” Margaret recalls, her eyes darkening with resentment. “I mentioned that my niece’s daughter could already read at four. Suddenly, she snapped, ‘Why must you compare them?’ I was shocked—how else would she see the difference? That was our last conversation.” Soon after, Margaret learned her daughter had changed the locks and barred her from the flat. “I thought it was a passing phase,” she says. “I expected her to come to her senses and apologise. But she never did.”
Months passed, and Charlotte’s silence grew heavier. In late July, it was Margaret’s birthday. She waited for a call that never came. “Her own mother, and not even a word!” she exclaims bitterly. The next day, she dialled from another number. “I told her, ‘If you won’t speak to me, then give up my flat!’” she remembers, her voice shaking with anger.
Six years earlier, before Charlotte’s wedding, Margaret had transferred the flat’s ownership to her. “Edward earned pennies,” she explains. “I wanted to help them—I had the means. But now that she’s turned her back on me, let her find somewhere else!” Charlotte’s reply was sharp: the flat was legally hers, the papers were in order, and no one could force her out. “She said it was her home, and I had no right to demand anything,” Margaret fumes. “Where’s the justice in that?”
Margaret insists she did the right thing. “If she’s so independent, let her prove it!” she says defiantly. “Find a new place, if she doesn’t value her mother.” But deep down, the pain gnaws at her. She remembers raising Charlotte, teaching her to be strong, dreaming of closeness. “I only ever wanted the best for her,” she whispers, eyes filling with tears. “Why has she shut me out?”
Charlotte, for her part, remains silent. Perhaps the years of criticism and control wore her down. Perhaps she simply wanted to shield her family from what she saw as interference. But Margaret refuses to accept this ending. She waits for her daughter to reach out, though with each passing day, hope fades like morning mist over the river.
Love, when given as rigid instruction rather than gentle guidance, can push away the very hearts it wishes to hold.
