The Gift from a Daughter: The Growling Silence of Age
Margaret Harrison had been bustling about the kitchen since dawn: chopping salads, simmering soup, sliding a garlic-roasted chicken into the oven, polishing her crystal vase for flowers. Twice, she dashed to the shops—returning with cake and bulging bags—only to bump into her neighbour at the doorstep.
“Planning a party, Maggie?” asked Lydia Bennett, her old friend, who never left the bench by the entrance.
“Of course! Emily’s coming home, my darling girl!” Margaret beamed, heaving the bags up the stairs with a grunt.
Lydia clicked her tongue. “Still fussing over that Emily, huh? Won’t even call her own mother… Tch.”
She’d long griped about Margaret’s devotion to her grown daughter. Weeks without a word, yet Margaret still peered out the window every day.
“Honestly, love, you’re winding yourself up. These days, the elderly are just a burden. Should’ve put your foot down years ago instead of running after her with cakes.”
But for Margaret, it wasn’t that simple. The heart isn’t a switch. Emily was the only reason she rose from bed each morning, even as she felt the love in return slipping away.
When Emily finally called, her voice clipped—”I’ll come by tonight”—Margaret’s heart hammered like a drum. She fluttered about, straightening bedsheets, adding one more dish to the feast… Then—the doorbell.
There stood her grown daughter: tall, thin, icy behind dark sunglasses, a tiny terrier on a leash.
“Hi, Mum,” Emily said, no warmth in her voice.
“Hello, darling! Come in, freshen up—I’ve laid everything out!”
Margaret scurried to the kitchen, clattering plates, arranging dishes with frantic hands. Emily trailed silently, her gaze detached.
“Sit down, love—your favourite roast, salads, cake!”
“Mum, I’m only here a minute. I’m moving to another city. It’s expensive, inconvenient to visit. We likely won’t see each other for years. This is Daisy. My ex gave her to me—no idea why. She’s a hassle to take along. You’re alone anyway—keep her. She’s eighteen months. Quiet, won’t bother you.”
Margaret froze. The cake, the roast, fresh sheets, milk, jam—all of it turned to dust. She stared at her daughter, who hadn’t even removed her sunglasses.
“Alright…” she whispered.
“Thanks, Mum. Love you.” Emily pecked her cheek, thrust the leash into her hands, and vanished.
Minutes later, Margaret stood in the hallway, the terrier trembling in her arms. She’d never liked pets. With her bad back, meagre pension, and exhaustion—what was she to do with a dog?
“Come, Daisy… Let’s see if Lydia will take you…”
But the moment Lydia opened her door, she scoffed:
“Lost your mind, Maggie? Last thing I need is your mangy mutt! Ruin my furniture, bring in fleas!”
“She’s clean—Emily’s fussy! Please, Lyd, you’ve had dogs before—”
“And you’ve got a brain! Told you not to cling to her. Now look—left with a ‘gift.’ Just dump it somewhere.”
The dog stayed silent, watching Margaret with dark eyes. Fear, resignation… and a familiar ache.
“Seems we’re the same,” Margaret murmured. “Both unwanted.”
“Do what you like,” Lydia muttered. “Just leave me out of it.”
The difficult days began. Daisy needed walking five times a day. Margaret’s back screamed, her legs gave out. Yet the dog waited—no whines, no barks. In rain, she sat by the door. In heat, she curled silently under the bed. Slowly, Margaret felt… less alone.
Even when Lydia stopped speaking to her. Yes, the friendship ended—but the house now had a soul.
A year passed. Margaret’s last. Her heart gave out. Neighbours found her in the kitchen, the dog still guarding the door, refusing food, silent.
A week later, Emily strode in unannounced.
“Ugh, the stink—” she sneered. Daisy began to bark.
“Quiet! Your mistress is gone. I’ll have to take you. Selling this place—no use for you here.”
At the graveside, Emily eyed the fresh mound.
“Thanks for the flat and the money. And your Daisy can stay here too.”
She dropped the leash and walked away.
The terrier sniffed the earth, then settled beside the grave. She knew—this was home.
Two days passed. Daisy didn’t move. Didn’t eat. Didn’t rise.
On the third day, Lydia appeared with flowers.
“There you are, little one,” she sighed, spotting the dog by the grave. “Oh, Maggie… Gave everything to that girl. And in the end… only the dog stayed.”
She knelt, stroking the thin fur.
“Alright. Come on, I’ll take you. Can’t leave you like this. If Maggie could manage… so can I. Just gotta be human.”
She lifted Daisy into her arms. Behind the grey clouds, the sun broke through—for the first time in a long, bitter week.
