For two years now, Margaret Thompson hasn’t spoken to her daughter, Charlotte. A year ago, without warning, Charlotte stopped answering her phone. She changed the locks on her flat in a quiet town along the River Thames and made it clear her mother was no longer welcome. Margaret still can’t come to terms with the rift, and her heart aches every time she thinks of her daughter.
“Two years without a word,” Margaret sighs, her voice trembling. “Charlotte carries on with her life—posting photos online, chatting with friends. But not a single call or message for me. She’s a grown woman now, with a three-year-old daughter and a husband. They have their own home. I’ve always been strict—with myself, with others, and with Charlotte 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 every trip became an ordeal. “How can you live in such a mess?” she’d scold, rearranging cupboards as if Charlotte were still a child. She pointed out unwashed dishes, criticised her parenting, and never held back about her son-in-law: “James is useless—always short on money!” Margaret believed only she could tell her daughter the truth, even when it hurt.
Then, a year ago, everything changed. “I called Charlotte as usual,” Margaret recalls, her eyes darkening with hurt. “I mentioned my niece’s daughter was already reading at four. Charlotte suddenly snapped, ‘Why must you compare them?’ I was shocked—of course you compare when the difference is clear! That was our last conversation.” Soon after, Margaret learned Charlotte had changed the locks. “I thought it was just a phase,” she says. “I assumed she’d come to her senses and apologise. But she never did.”
Months passed, and the silence grew heavier. In late July, it was Margaret’s birthday. She waited for Charlotte’s call, but the phone stayed silent. “Not even a word to her own mother!” she mutters bitterly. The next day, she couldn’t resist and called 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 to her name. “James earned next to nothing,” 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 to live!” Charlotte fired back: the flat was legally hers, the paperwork clear, and no one could force her out. “She said it was her home now, and I had no right to demand anything,” Margaret fumes. “Where’s the justice in that?”
Margaret believes she did the right thing. “Prove her independence if she’s so capable!” she challenges. “Find a new place, since she doesn’t appreciate her mother.” But deep down, pain gnaws at her. She remembers raising Charlotte, teaching her strength, dreaming of closeness. “I only ever wanted what was best for her,” she whispers, tears welling. “Why has she shut me out?”
Charlotte, for her part, remains silent. Perhaps she grew weary of the constant criticism. Perhaps she needed to shield her family from what felt like suffocating control. But Margaret refuses to accept this ending. She waits for Charlotte to reach out—yet with each passing day, hope fades like morning mist over the river.
Some wounds don’t heal with time, and pride often keeps us from the very bridges we long to rebuild.
[Story ends. No further commentary.]
