Now I’m seventy years old, as lonely as a stray dog. I’ve become a burden to my own daughter.
“Darling, could you come over this evening? Please, I can’t manage without you.”
“Mum, I’m swamped with work! I’m tired of your constant whinging. Fine, I’ll come…”
I couldn’t hold back—I burst into tears. It hurt, truly hurt. And just like that, memories came flooding back—the sleepless nights, the years I spent struggling alone to raise her, my Daisy. I gave her everything. Is this how she repays me?
Maybe it’s my own fault. I spoiled her, let her have her way too often. And when she was eleven, I met a man… for the first time in so long, I felt like a woman again, loved, wanted. But Daisy made such a fuss I had to cut ties with him, even though it broke my heart.
Now here I am at seventy. Alone. Completely alone. My body’s full of aches, I can barely walk. And my only daughter… she’s been married for twenty years, and it seems she’d rather pretend her mother doesn’t exist. She has three children—my grandchildren—but I only ever see them in photos. Why? I don’t even know…
“What’s wrong this time?” Daisy snapped as she walked into the flat.
“I’ve been prescribed injections. You’re a nurse—you could help…”
“What, am I supposed to come over every single day? Are you taking the mickey, Mum?”
“Darling, I can’t even step outside—the pavements are icy…”
“Are you paying me for this? I’m not a charity! I’m not traipsing over here for free!”
“I haven’t got the money…”
“Well, bye then, Mum. Find someone else!”
The next morning, I left two hours early to make it to the doctor’s. I shuffled along the roadside, wheezing, wiping away tears. Never thought I’d live to see the day…
“Madam, please go ahead of the queue… are you alright? You’re crying.”
It was a young woman with kind eyes. She stopped beside me in the corridor and put a hand on my shoulder.
“No, love, the tears are for a different reason…”
And that’s how we got talking. I poured my heart out to her like it was confession—because there was no one else left to talk to. Her name was Julie. Turned out she lived just two streets over. From that day on, she started visiting often, bringing groceries, helping around the house.
When my birthday came, she was the only one who showed up. Just Julie.
“I couldn’t let today pass without seeing you. You remind me so much of my mum… Being near you makes my heart feel light,” she said, hugging me.
That’s when I realised—she’d become closer to me than my own flesh and blood. We went on walks, took trips to the countryside, spent holidays together. She cared for me like family.
After a long while, I made up my mind—I signed the flat over to Julie. At first, she refused, tried to turn it down. But I insisted. It was my way of thanking her for the warmth she’d given me. I knew she wasn’t the sort to do good just for gain.
Eventually, she took me in—it had become too hard to live alone. We sold my flat so Daisy wouldn’t have any grounds to drag Julie through legal battles later.
And would you believe it? My daughter only remembered me a year later. She turned up, hurling accusations, wishing me dead. Probably had her eye on the flat, and I’d “let her down.” Then Julie’s husband stood in the doorway and said, quiet but firm:
“Leave. And don’t come back. You’re not welcome here.”
That’s how it is… Strangers ended up meaning more than my own child. It’s painful, it’s shameful, and it chills me how easily we lose what makes us human. But if I had to choose again, I’d still pick Julie. Because she’s my family. The real kind.
