Now I am seventy. Alone as a lone tree in a field. To my daughter, I am nothing but a burden. Married twenty years, she prefers not to remember me at all.
“Darling, could you come by this evening? I can’t manage on my own anymore…”
“Mum, I’m swamped with work! How much longer must I listen to your complaints?! Fine, I’ll come.”
I wept—not from anger, but from sorrow. All those years I gave to my only daughter, living for her, raising her alone… And this was my reward. Perhaps I spoiled her too much.
When Daisy was eleven, I allowed myself happiness for the first time in years—a man I truly loved. She threw such a fit that, in tears, I ended it. She was pleased.
Now I am seventy. Alone. No support, no kindness—not physically, not emotionally, certainly not financially. My daughter has been married for two decades. She lives her own life. It’s easier for her to forget me.
I have three grandchildren. I hardly see them. Why? I don’t know. Maybe because their mother sees no reason to stay in touch.
That day, I felt worse than usual. I called Daisy.
“I’ve been prescribed injections. You’re a nurse—could you help?”
“You want me to come over every day?! Is this a joke?!”
“Daisy, I can’t make it to the clinic. The snow, the ice—I’ll fall.”
“Well, do you have the money to pay me? I’m not doing this for free!”
“No… I don’t.”
“Then that’s that, Mum! Find someone else!”
I hung up in silence. The next morning, I left two hours early to reach the clinic, clutching fences and walls, crying—not from pain, but despair.
At the entrance, a woman approached. “Come straight in. Why the tears? Are you hurt?”
“No,” I said. “This isn’t from pain.”
She stayed. We talked. For the first time in years, I told someone everything—because there was no one else.
Her name was Julia. She lived just next door. After my appointment, she insisted I come for tea. From then on, we met—not often, but honestly.
On my seventieth birthday, Julia arrived with cake and candles. Daisy didn’t even call. Julia said, “You remind me so much of my mum… Being with you feels like home.”
She visited more often—helping with chores, bringing groceries, taking me to appointments. Sometimes I’d go to hers—tea, conversation, small celebrations. Once, we even took a trip together. For the first time in years, I felt alive again.
After long thought, I decided: my two-bedroom flat would go to Julia. She refused, saying she wanted nothing. But I knew—she cared without gain. Simply because she was kind. Because I had become like a mother to her.
Later, I moved in with her—living alone was too hard. We sold the flat, so Daisy wouldn’t think of contesting it after my death.
A year passed without word from Daisy. Then, like a storm from clear skies—a knock at the door. There she stood. No hello, no how-are-you. She screamed:
“How could you?! How could you give the flat to a stranger?! You ruined my life, and now you steal my inheritance?!”
She raged, cursed, wished me dead. Then Julia’s husband rose, walked to the door, and said, “Leave. And don’t come back.”
We haven’t crossed paths since.
The cruelest part? It’s not that my own daughter abandoned me. It’s that it no longer hurts. Because a stranger became closer than blood. Because some care not out of duty—but because they choose to.
Let them talk. Let them whisper. For the first time in years, I feel needed—not as a burden, but as a person.
