Now I’m 70. All on my own. To my daughter, I’m just a burden. She’s been married 20 years and prefers to forget I even exist.
“Love, could you come over tonight? I’m really struggling here…”
“Mum, I’m up to my neck in work! How many times do I have to listen to your moaning? Fine, I’ll come.”
I broke down—not from anger, but from heartbreak. All those years I gave to my only daughter, raising her alone, living just for her… And this is the thanks I get. Maybe I spoiled her too much.
When Daisy was eleven, I let myself be happy for the first time in ages—started seeing a bloke. She threw such a fit, I ended it in tears, even though I truly loved him. And she was pleased as punch.
Now here I am, seventy and completely alone. No support, no kindness—not physically, not emotionally, and definitely not financially. My daughter’s been married two decades, living her own life. It’s easier for her to pretend I don’t exist.
I’ve got three grandkids. Hardly ever see them. Don’t know why. Maybe because their mum can’t be bothered to keep in touch.
That day, I was feeling rougher than usual. Called Daisy.
“I’ve been prescribed injections. You’re a nurse—could you do them for me?”
“Oh, you want me to come round every day? Are you having a laugh?!”
“Daisy, I can’t make it to the surgery. Ice everywhere—I’ll fall!”
“Well, have you got money to pay me? I’m not doing it for free!”
“No… I haven’t.”
“Then that’s that, Mum! Ask someone else!”
I hung up without a word. Next morning, I left two hours early to slog to the surgery, clutching fences and walls, crying the whole way. Not from pain—from sheer despair.
At the surgery, a woman stopped me.
“Go straight in. Why are you crying? In pain?”
“No,” I said. “It’s not that kind of hurt.”
She didn’t walk away. We got talking. For the first time in years, I told someone everything. Because there was no one else.
Her name was Julia. Turned out, she lived just down the road. After my appointment, she insisted I come for tea. From then on, we started meeting. Not often, but properly.
On my 70th, Julia showed up with a cake and candles. Daisy didn’t even call. And Julia said,
“You remind me so much of my mum… Being with you feels like home.”
Julia started visiting more. Helped with chores, brought shopping, took me to appointments. Sometimes I’d pop round—we’d have tea, chat, celebrate little things together. Even went on a short getaway once. For the first time in forever, I felt alive again.
After a lot of thought, I decided—my two-bed flat would go to Julia. She fought me, said she didn’t want anything. But I knew—she wasn’t after anything. She cared because she *wanted* to. Like family.
Eventually, I moved in with her—living alone got too hard. We sold the flat so Daisy wouldn’t even think of dragging Julia to court after I’m gone.
Over a year passed with no word from my daughter. Then—out of the blue—a knock at the door. There stood Daisy. No hello, no how-are-you, just screaming:
“How could you?! Giving *my* flat to some stranger?! You ruined my life, and now you’re cheating me out of my inheritance?!”
She yelled, blamed me, even wished me dead. Then Julia’s husband just stood up, walked to the door, and said,
“Leave. And don’t come back.”
We haven’t crossed paths since.
You know the worst part? It’s not that my own daughter turned her back. It’s that it doesn’t hurt anymore. Because a stranger became more family than blood ever was. Because some people care *because* they choose to—not because they have to.
Let people talk. Let them whisper. But for the first time in years, I feel *wanted*. Not as a burden. Just as me.
