**Diary Entry – 12th November**
Now I’m seventy. Alone as a lone tree in a field. To my daughter, I’m nothing but a burden. She’s been married twenty years and prefers to forget I exist.
*”Emily, love, could you come over this evening? I’m really struggling on my own…”*
*”Mum, I’m up to my neck in work! How much longer must I listen to your complaining? Fine, I’ll come.”*
I wept then—not from anger, but from sorrow. A lifetime I’d given my only daughter, raised her alone, lived just for her… And this was my thanks. Perhaps I’d spoiled her rotten.
When Emily was eleven, I dared to seek a bit of happiness for myself after years alone—I started seeing a man. She threw such a tantrum that I, in tears, ended things with the only man I’d truly loved. And she was satisfied.
Now here I am at seventy. Not a soul to lean on—not physically, not emotionally, least of all financially. My daughter’s built her own life, married two decades. Easier for her to pretend I don’t exist.
I’ve three grandchildren. Hardly ever see them. Don’t know why—maybe because their mother sees no reason to keep me in their lives.
That day, I felt especially poorly. Phoned Emily:
*”The doctor’s prescribed injections. You’re a nurse—could you…?”*
*”You expect me to traipse over every day? Are you joking?”*
*”Emily, I can’t make it to the surgery. Ice everywhere—I’ll fall!”*
*”Well, have you got the money to pay me? I’m not doing this for free!”*
*”No… I haven’t.”*
*”Then that’s that, Mum! Ask someone else!”*
I hung up quietly. Next morning, I left two hours early, clinging to fences and walls as I shuffled to the surgery, crying all the way. Not from pain—from sheer despair.
At the door, a woman approached me:
*”Skip the queue. What’s wrong—are you hurt?”*
*”No,”* I said. *”It’s not that kind of pain.”*
She stayed. We talked. For the first time in years, I told someone everything—because there was no one else.
Her name was Margaret. Turns out, she lived just down the road. After my appointment, she insisted I come for tea. From then on, we met now and then—not often, but it was real. On my seventieth, Margaret showed up with a cake and flowers. Emily never even called. Margaret said:
*”You remind me so much of my mum… Being with you feels like home.”*
She started visiting more—helping with chores, bringing groceries, taking me to doctors. Sometimes I’d go to hers—tea, long chats, little celebrations. Once, we even took a trip to the countryside. For the first time in decades, I felt alive again.
After much thought, I decided: my two-bed flat would go to Margaret. She refused at first, said she wanted nothing. But I knew—she cared for me not for gain, but out of kindness. Because I’d become like family.
Later, I moved in with her—living alone grew too hard. We sold the flat to stop Emily from dragging Margaret through court after I’m gone.
I hadn’t heard from my daughter in over a year. Then, out of the blue—a knock. There stood Emily. No greeting, just shouting:
*”How could you?! Giving my inheritance to a stranger! You ruined my life, and now you’ve robbed me too!”*
She screamed, cursed, wished me dead. Then Margaret’s husband simply walked to the door and said:
*”Leave. Don’t come back.”*
We’ve not crossed paths since.
The worst part? It’s not that my own child turned away—it’s that it doesn’t hurt anymore. Because a stranger became closer than blood. Because some people care not out of duty, but because they choose to.
Let them talk. Let them whisper. After years of loneliness, I finally feel wanted—not as a burden, but as a person.
