Two years had passed. In all that time, my daughter hadn’t called, hadn’t sent a single message. She no longer wanted to see me, and I would soon be turning seventy.
My neighbor, Evelyn Thompson, had just celebrated her sixty-eighth birthday. She lived alone, so I sometimes visited—bringing tea and biscuits to ease the quiet of her home. Evelyn was warm, full of wit, and loved sharing tales of her travels. But she never spoke of family. Not until that snowy evening, just before Christmas, when she opened her heart to me.
That night, she wasn’t herself. Her smile was forced, her eyes dull. I’d brought mince pies, hoping to lift her spirits. We sat in silence until, at last, she spoke.
“Two years…” Her voice was barely a whisper as she stared into her tea. “Not a word from my daughter. Not a call, not a card. I tried reaching out over the holidays, but her number’s disconnected. She must have changed it. I don’t even know where she lives now…”
Her voice trembled like a leaf in the wind. Then, with a heavy sigh, she began her story.
Once, we had a happy family. I met William in our twenties. We’d married young, traveled, built careers before settling down. He worked for a London firm, often on business trips, and I sometimes joined him. We worked hard but laughed harder.
Years later, we bought a spacious three-bedroom house in Cheshire. William renovated it himself—measured every shelf, sanded every door. It wasn’t just a home—it was our dream made real.
Then, our daughter was born. William adored her. Read her bedtime stories, took her to the park. I thought our life was perfect.
But happiness doesn’t last. Ten years ago, William died after a long illness. We spent nearly all our savings on his care, but nothing could save him. The house grew cold, silent—as if the warmth had left with him.
After his death, our daughter changed. She drifted away, stayed with friends, then moved into a flat. I didn’t stop her—everyone needs space. We met rarely but stayed in touch. Until one day.
Two years ago, she came to me with a request. She wanted a mortgage on her own place. Asked me to sell our home—buy a smaller one, use the rest for her deposit.
I couldn’t. Not out of selfishness. But that house… it was the last thread tying me to William. Every corner, every scent, every creaking floorboard held him.
I tried explaining. She wouldn’t listen.
“Dad built this for *me*!” she shouted. “And you cling to it like some bloody museum!”
Then she slammed the door. And nothing since.
Through a mutual friend, I heard she got the mortgage alone. Works two jobs, rents a tiny flat. No family, no holidays—just work and exhaustion.
I’ve called. No answer. Number gone. The friend says she looks tired, thinner. But she won’t let anyone close.
I don’t know how to reach her. How to apologize when I don’t even know for what. I’m not young anymore. Seventy creeps closer. And my heart aches.
Some nights, I sit by the window, staring into the dark, imagining the door opening. Hearing her say, *“Mum, I missed you.”* But perhaps it’s just an old woman’s foolish hope.
I ask myself—was I wrong? Should I have sacrificed the past for her future? Or was keeping our home the right choice?
There’s no answer.
Just silence. A photograph of William on the wall. His eyes seem to ask, *“Why did it come to this?”*
And I have nothing to say.
