Two years had passed. Not a single word from my daughter since then—she had erased me from her life. And soon, I’ll be 70…
Everyone in the neighbourhood knows my neighbour, Evelyn Margaret. She’s 68 and lives alone. Sometimes, I drop by with tea and biscuits—just to be neighbourly. She’s kind, refined, always smiling, and loves reminiscing about the trips she took with her late husband. But she rarely speaks of family. Then, just before the holidays, when I visited as usual with a small gift, she unexpectedly opened up. That evening, I heard a story that still chills me to the bone.
When I stepped into her flat, Evelyn was not herself. Normally lively and cheerful, she sat quietly that night, staring blankly. I didn’t pry, just made tea, set out the biscuits, and sat beside her in silence. For a long while, she said nothing, as if wrestling with herself. Then, suddenly, she exhaled:
“It’s been two years… Not one call. No card, no text. I tried ringing—the number’s disconnected. I don’t even know her address anymore.”
She paused briefly, as if decades flickered before her eyes. Then, as if a dam had broken, Evelyn began to speak.
“We were a happy family. James and I married young but waited to have children—we wanted time for ourselves. His job let us travel often. We were close, always laughing, devoted to the home we built together. He made it a haven—a spacious three-bed in central London. His life’s dream.”
When our daughter, Sophie, was born, James lit up all over again. He carried her everywhere, read her stories, spent every free moment with her. Watching them, I thought myself the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, James passed. He’d been ill for so long; we fought until the end, spending every penny we had. And then… silence. Emptiness. Like a piece of my heart had been torn away.
After James died, Sophie grew distant. She moved out, wanting her own space. I didn’t object—she was an adult, entitled to her life. She visited, we talked, things seemed normal. But two years ago, she came to me, bluntly declaring she wanted a mortgage for her own flat.
I sighed and explained I couldn’t help. The savings James and I had put by were nearly gone—all spent on his treatment. My pension barely covers bills and medicine. Then she suggested… selling the flat. “We could buy you a small place on the outskirts,” she said, “and the rest would cover my deposit.”
I couldn’t agree. It wasn’t about money—it was about memory. These walls, every corner—James built them with his own hands. All my happiness, my life, unfolded here. How could I let it go? She shouted that her father had done it all for her, that the flat would be hers eventually, that I was selfish. I tried to explain that I only wanted her to come back someday and remember us. 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, a mutual friend mentioned she’d taken the mortgage and now worked herself ragged—two jobs, always racing. No partner, no children. Even her friend hadn’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—she must’ve changed her number. Perhaps she doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to hear me. Thinks I betrayed her by not giving in. But I’m nearly 70 now. I don’t know how much longer I’ll last here, how many more evenings I’ll spend waiting by the window. And I still don’t understand… what I did that hurt her so deeply.
In the end, some wounds never heal—they only teach us how much love can hurt, and how deeply a home is made of memories, not just bricks.
