Two years had passed. Not once in all that time had my daughter called or sent a single message. She no longer wants to see me, and soon I’ll be seventy.
My neighbor, Margaret Williams, recently turned sixty-eight. She lives alone, and from time to time, I visit her—bringing biscuits or a cake to ease her loneliness. Margaret is a bright soul, warm and quick-witted, with a sharp sense of humor. She loves to share stories of her travels, her life. But almost never did she speak of family. Only once, on a quiet evening before the holidays, did she let the walls around her heart crumble.
That night, when I brought her tea and shortbread, she wasn’t herself. Her eyes were dull, her smile hollow. We sat in silence at her kitchen table until, at last, she spoke.
“Two years,” she whispered, staring into her cup. “Two years without a word. Not a call, not a letter. I tried ringing her at Christmas—her number doesn’t work anymore. She must have changed it. I don’t even know where she lives now.”
Her voice trembled like the last autumn leaf clinging to a branch. Then, with a deep breath, Margaret began her story.
We were happy once. I met Thomas when we were just past twenty. We weren’t in a rush for children—we wanted to see the world first, to live for ourselves. He worked for a good firm, often traveling for business, and sometimes I went with him. We worked hard, but we laughed harder.
In time, we bought a spacious three-bedroom house. Thomas renovated it himself—measuring every shelf, every doorframe with care. That house wasn’t just walls; it was everything we’d ever dreamed of.
Years later, our daughter was born. Thomas adored her. Carried her on his shoulders, read her bedtime stories, took her to the park. I truly believed life couldn’t be more perfect.
But happiness never lasts. Ten years ago, Thomas fell ill. We spent nearly all our savings on treatments, but nothing could save him. After he was gone, the house grew quiet, cold—as if the warmth had left with him.
Our daughter changed after that. She pulled away, staying with friends more often, then moved into a rented flat. I understood—everyone needs their own space. We saw each other less, but we still spoke. Until the day we didn’t.
Two years ago, she came to me with a request. She wanted a mortgage for her own place. Asked me to sell the house, buy a small flat for myself, and use the rest for her deposit.
I couldn’t do it. Not out of selfishness or greed. That house—it was the last thread tying me to Thomas. Every corner held a memory: the shelves he built, the scent of his books.
I tried to explain. She wouldn’t listen.
“Dad built all this for *me*!” she shouted. “And you’re clinging to it like a graveyard!”
Then she slammed the door and left. Not a word since.
Recently, I heard from a mutual friend that she took the mortgage on her own. Works two jobs now, still renting. No children. No partner. Just work, home, work.
I’ve tried calling. Nothing. She’s changed her number. The friend who sees her says she looks exhausted, thinner. But won’t let anyone close.
I don’t know how to reach her. How to apologize when I don’t even understand what for. I’m not young anymore—seventy is just around the corner. And my heart aches with missing her.
Some nights, I sit by the window, staring into the dark, imagining the silhouette of my girl walking up the path. Hearing her say, *”Mum, I missed you.”* But perhaps that’s just an old woman’s foolish hope.
I ask myself all the time—was I wrong? Should I have let go of the past for her future? Or was I right to hold onto the memory of us?
No answer comes.
Only silence in this empty house, and Thomas’s photo on the wall, his eyes asking me, *”How did it all go wrong?”*
And I don’t know what to say.
