Two years had passed. Not a single word from my daughter since then—she had erased me from her life. And here I am, soon to be seventy…
Everyone in the neighbourhood knows my neighbour, Evelyn Whitmore. She’s sixty-eight, living alone. Sometimes, I drop by with something for tea—just as a friendly gesture. She’s kind, refined, always with a smile, fond of sharing stories about the travels she took with her late husband. But she rarely speaks of family. That was, until the eve of the last holidays, when I visited as usual with a little treat. Unexpectedly, she opened up, and for the first time, I heard a story that still chills my heart.
When I stepped into her flat that evening, Evelyn seemed unlike herself. Normally lively and cheerful, she sat quietly, staring blankly. I didn’t press her—just made the tea, set out the biscuits, and sat beside her in silence. She remained quiet for a long while, as if wrestling with herself. Then, suddenly, she exhaled:
“Two years… Not a call, not even a text. I tried ringing—the number no longer exists. I don’t even know her address anymore…”
She paused briefly. It seemed as though years, even decades, flashed before her eyes. Then, as if a dam had broken, Evelyn began to speak.
“We were a happy family. George and I married young but waited to have children—we wanted time for ourselves first. His work allowed us to travel often. We were close, always laughing, devoted to the home we built together. He crafted it with his own hands—a spacious three-bedroom in the heart of London. The dream of his life…”
When our daughter, Isabelle, was born, George seemed to bloom anew. He carried her in his arms, read her bedtime stories, spent every spare moment with her. Watching them, I thought myself the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, George passed. He’d been ill a long while; we fought it to the last, spending everything we had. And then… silence. Emptiness. As though a piece of my heart had been torn out.
After her father’s death, Isabelle began to drift away. She rented a flat, wanted to live independently. I didn’t object—she was grown, entitled to her own life. She visited, we spoke, all seemed well within reason. But two years ago, she came to me and declared outright that she intended to take a mortgage and buy a place of her own.
I sighed and explained I couldn’t help. The savings George and I had built were nearly gone—spent on his treatments. My pension barely covered bills and medicine. Then she suggested… selling the flat. “We could buy you a one-bed somewhere on the outskirts,” she said, “and the rest would go toward my deposit.”
I couldn’t agree. It wasn’t about the money—it was about memory. These walls, every corner—George had shaped them with his hands. My happiness, my entire life, unfolded here. How could I just let it go? She shouted that her father had done it all for her, that the flat would be hers eventually anyway, that I was being selfish. I tried to explain that I only wished for her to one day return, to remember us here… But she wouldn’t listen.
That day, she slammed the door and left. Silence ever since. No calls, no visits, not even on holidays. Later, I learnt through a mutual friend that she’d taken the mortgage after all, working herself ragged—two jobs, always racing. No family, no children. Even her friend admitted she hadn’t seen her in half a year.
And I… I simply wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, hoping it might ring. But it never does. I can’t even reach her—she must have changed her number. Likely, she doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to hear me. Thinks I betrayed her that day by refusing to yield. But I’ll be seventy soon. I don’t know how much longer I’ll last in this flat, how many evenings I’ll spend by the window, waiting. And I still don’t know what I did to hurt her so deeply.
