Now I’m 70 years old. Lonely as a church mouse. I’ve become a burden to my own daughter.
—”Emma, please come round this evening… I need you, I can’t manage alone.”
—”Mum, I’m swamped with work! I’m sick of your whinging. Fine, I’ll come…”
I couldn’t hold back—I wept. It stung, cut deep. And just like that, memories flooded in—the sleepless nights, the long years I carried everything alone to raise her, my Emily. I gave her my whole life. Is this the thanks I get?
Maybe it’s my own fault. Spoiled her rotten, let her get away with too much. And when she was eleven, I met a man… for the first time in years, I felt like a woman again, loved, wanted. But Emily kicked up such a fuss I had to break it off, even though it broke my heart.
Now I’m seventy. And alone. Completely alone. A bundle of aches, barely walking. And my only daughter… married twenty years, acting like I don’t exist. She’s got three kids—my grandchildren—but I only see them in photos. Why? I don’t even know…
—”What’s wrong this time?” Emily snapped as she walked in.
—”The doctor says I need injections. You’re a nurse, you could help…”
—”You expect me to come here every day? You’re having a laugh, Mum!”
—”Emily, I can’t go out—the pavements are like glass…”
—”You paying me for it? I don’t work for free!”
—”I haven’t got the money…”
—”Well, bye then, Mum. Find someone else!”
The next morning, I left two hours early to crawl to the clinic. Hobbled along the pavement, gasping, wiping tears. Never thought I’d live to see the day…
—”Love, skip the queue, will you? You alright? You’re crying.”
A young woman with kind eyes stopped beside me in the corridor, her hand on my shoulder.
—”No, sweetheart, I’m crying over something else…”
So we got talking. Like confession, I poured my heart out—who else was there? Her name was Alice. Turned out she lived just two streets over. After that, she started visiting often—brought groceries, helped around the house.
On my birthday, only Alice came. Just her.
—”Couldn’t let your special day pass. You remind me so much of my mum… My heart feels warm with you.” She hugged me.
Then I understood—she’d become closer than my own daughter. We took walks, drove to the countryside, spent holidays together. She cared for me like family.
After wrestling with it, I put the house in Alice’s name. She refused at first, didn’t want it. But I insisted. My way of thanking her for the kindness she’d shown. I knew—she wasn’t the sort to help just for gain.
Eventually, she took me in—I couldn’t live alone anymore. We sold my place so Emily couldn’t drag her to court over it.
And would you believe it? My daughter remembered me a year later. Came screaming, calling me a traitor, wishing me dead. Probably had her eye on the house—now she’d been “let down.” Alice’s husband stood at the door and said, quiet but firm:
—”Leave. And don’t come back. You’re not welcome here.”
There it was… Strangers closer than my own flesh and blood. It hurts, it shames me, how easily decency slips away. But if I had to choose again? I’d choose Alice. Because she’s my family. The real kind.
