Now I’m seventy. Alone as a lone pine. A burden to my own daughter.
“Darling, please come over this evening. I can’t manage on my own…”
“Mum, I’m swamped with work! Stop whining. Fine, I’ll come.”
I stood by the telephone, clutching the receiver, tears rolling down my cheeks. From hurt. From pain. From the crushing realisation—I was nothing but a nuisance to the only child I had. I remembered raising Diana alone, carrying everything on my shoulders. Never once had I denied her anything. Only the best for her. Everything—just for her. Perhaps that was my mistake. I spoiled her too much, loved her too deeply, believed too firmly that if I made her happy, I’d be happy too.
When Diana was eleven, a man came into my life. For the first time in years, I felt like a woman. But Diana threw such a fit that I had to let him go. Though my heart screamed, I chose my daughter. Always her. And now… now I’m seventy. Lonely. Frail with illness, barely any strength left, and the one person I leaned on—my own daughter—brushes me off like an irritating fly.
Diana’s been married twenty years. She has three children, but I hardly see them. Why? I don’t know. Maybe they’ve been told I’m “a bother” too.
“Mum, what now?” Diana barged in, irritation sharp in her voice.
“The doctor prescribed injections… You’re a nurse—could you help?”
“What, drive here all week? Are you joking?”
“Diana, the pavements are icy—I can’t make it to the clinic on my own…”
“Well, pay me then! Or do you think I’ll waste my time for free?”
“I don’t have the money…”
“Brilliant! Ask someone else!” The door slammed shut.
The next morning, I left two hours early—shuffling down the snowy pavement, clutching the prescription, murmuring, “You can do this. Just get there…” But tears fell anyway. From pain. From loneliness. From words I’d never forget: “You’re a burden.”
At the clinic entrance, a young woman stopped.
“Let the lady through! Are you unwell? You’re crying.”
“No, love. Not from pain. From life…”
She sat beside me, listened. I told her everything. Strangely, it was easier to speak to a stranger than my own flesh and blood. Her name was Emily. She lived nearby, as it turned out. After that day, she visited often. We became friends. She brought groceries, helped with medicines. Just listened.
On my birthday, Emily came alone. Diana didn’t even call.
“I couldn’t stay away,” Emily said. “You remind me so much of my mum. Being with you feels like home.”
And then I understood—a stranger had given me more than the child I’d raised with a mother’s heart.
We grew close. Emily took me to her cottage, celebrated holidays together, drove to the countryside. Finally, I made the hardest, fairest decision—I signed the flat over to her. She refused at first. “I don’t want anything from you.” But I insisted. She wasn’t with me for money—that much was clear. She simply stayed. When no one else would.
Later, I moved in with her—living alone became too hard. We sold my flat so Diana couldn’t contest it. And for a while, we forgot.
Then Diana returned. Bitter. Cold.
“You gave the flat to a stranger! You humiliated me in front of the family! It should’ve been mine! I wish you were dead!”
Emily’s husband threw her out before she could shout at me again.
So here’s the truth: strangers can be closer than blood. Emily became the daughter I needed. The one I raised turned her back when things got hard. Because she couldn’t be bothered. Because I was “in the way.” Because a mother’s love isn’t an asset. It’s just a feeling. And feelings—these days—don’t count for much.
