Two years had passed. In all that time, my daughter hadn’t written a single word. She’d erased me from her life. And here I am, nearly 70…
Everyone in the neighbourhood knows my neighbour, Margaret Wilkins. She’s 68, living alone. Sometimes I pop over with a little something for tea—just being neighbourly. She’s kind, refined, always smiling, loves reminiscing about trips she took with her late husband. But she rarely speaks of family. Then, just before the holidays, when I dropped by with some mince pies as usual, she surprised me with a confession. It was the first time I’d heard the story that still sends a chill down my spine.
That evening, Margaret wasn’t herself. Normally lively, she sat quietly, staring at nothing. I didn’t pry—just made tea, set out the biscuits, and sat beside her in silence. For a long moment, she said nothing, as if wrestling with herself. Then she let out a shaky breath.
“It’s been two years… Not a call, not a card, not even a text. I tried calling—the number doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t even know her address now.”
She paused, her eyes miles away. Then, as if a dam had broken, the words tumbled out.
“We were a happy family. Geoffrey and I married young but didn’t rush into children—we wanted time for ourselves first. His job took us all over. We laughed constantly, adored our home, built it up together. He built our nest with his own hands—a spacious three-bedroom in central Manchester. His pride and joy.”
When our daughter, Charlotte, was born, Geoffrey glowed. He carried her everywhere, read her stories, spent every free moment with her. Watching them, I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, Geoffrey was gone. A long illness ate through our savings, and then… silence. An emptiness, like a piece of my heart had been torn out.
After her father’s death, Charlotte pulled away. Rented a flat, wanted independence. I didn’t argue—she was grown, after all. She visited, we talked, things were… normal. Then two years ago, she came over and announced she was taking out a mortgage to buy her own place.
I sighed and explained I couldn’t help. What little we’d saved had gone on Geoffrey’s care. My pension barely covers bills and prescriptions. Then she suggested… selling the house. “We could get you a little flat in the suburbs,” she said, “and the rest could cover my deposit.”
I couldn’t. It wasn’t about the money—it was the memories. These walls, every corner—Geoffrey built them. My whole life was here. How could I let it go? She shouted that her father had done it all for *her*, that the house would be hers eventually anyway, that I was selfish. I tried to explain I just wanted her to come back one day and remember us… But she wasn’t listening.
She slammed the door that day. Not a word since. No calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, a mutual friend mentioned she’d taken the mortgage, working herself ragged—two jobs, no life. No partner, no children. Even her friend hasn’t seen her in months.
And me? I just wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, hoping it’ll ring. It never does. I can’t even reach her—number changed, I suppose. She doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to hear me. Thinks I betrayed her that day. But I’ll be 70 soon. I don’t know how many evenings I’ll spend by this window, waiting. Or what I did to hurt her so much.
