It has been two years now, and my daughter has vanished from my life while I am nearly seventy. She has not uttered a single word to me since she cut me out of her existence, and I find myself counting the days in a house that feels both familiar and empty.
Everyone in the block knows my neighbour, Mrs. Agnes Whitaker. She is sixtyeight, lives alone, and I often pop over with a slice of cake for tea just out of kindness. She is a gentle, wellmannered lady who never fails to smile, and she loves to recollect the trips she once took with her late husband. She rarely mentions her family, but before the last holidays, when I arrived with a tin of biscuits, she finally gathered the courage to reveal the truth. That was the first time I heard a story that still makes my heart ache.
When I stepped inside, Mrs. Whitaker seemed out of sorts. Usually so lively, she sat in silence that evening, staring at a point on the wall. I did not press her for details; I poured the tea, set a small pot of shortbread beside her, and took a seat. She remained quiet for a long while, as if wrestling with some inner battle. Then she exhaled and said:
Two years have gone by No call, no letter. I tried to ring her, but the number no longer exists. I do not even know where she lives.
She fell silent. It was as if the years flashed before her eyes, and then, as if a dam had broken, she began to speak.
We once had a happy family. William and I married young, but we did not rush into having children; we wanted some time for ourselves first. His job allowed us to travel, and we laughed a lot, building a home together. With his own hands he built a cosy nest for usa spacious threebed terraced house in the heart of Birmingham. It was the dream of his life.
When our daughter, Ethel, was born, William seemed to come alive anew. He would carry her in his arms, read her stories, and devote every minute to her. Watching them, I thought I wanted nothing more. But ten years ago William passed away. He had been ill for a long time; we fought to the end, spending everything we had. Then silence. A void, as if my heart had been ripped out.
After my husbands death, Ethel began to pull away. She rented a flat and moved out on her own. I did not argueshe was an adult, let her build her own life. She still visited, we talked, and everything seemed normal. Yet two years ago she came and said plainly that she wanted to take out a mortgage and buy a place of her own.
I sighed and told her honestly that I could not help. The savings William and I had built were virtually gone, spent on his treatment. My state pension barely covers the council tax and my medication. She then suggested selling the house. Ill buy a onebedroom somewhere in the countryside, and the remaining money can go towards your deposit, she said.
I could not do it. It was not about the moneyit was about memory. Every wall, every corner of that house bore Williams handiwork. It held my whole life. How could I hand it over? She shouted that William had always done everything for her, that the house would belong to her anyway, that I was selfish. I tried to explain that I only wanted her to return someday and remember us, but she would not listen.
In anger she slammed the door and left. Since then, silence has filled the roomsno calls, no greetings. I later learned from a friend that Ethel did indeed take out a mortgage and now works two jobs, never resting. She has no family, no children. Even her friends have not seen her in half a year.
And I I wait. Every day I stare at my telephone, hoping for a ring that never comes. The number has presumably been changed. Perhaps she does not want to see me, thinks I betrayed her. Yet I am close to seventy. I do not know how many more evenings I will spend by this window, awaiting a sign, nor how much longer I can remain in this house. I cannot understand what I have done to offend her so deeply.
