Two years have passed. Not a single word from my daughter since then. She’s erased me from her life. And here I am, turning 70 soon…
Everyone in the neighbourhood knows my neighbour, Margaret Hartwell. She’s 68, living alone. Sometimes I pop round with something for tea—just being neighbourly, you know? She’s kind, well-spoken, always smiling, loves chatting about the trips she took with her late husband. But family? Rarely a word. Then, just before the holidays, when I dropped by with some treats as usual, she unexpectedly opened up. That’s when I first heard the story that still chills me to the bone.
When I stepped into her flat that evening, Margaret wasn’t herself. Usually lively, she sat there quiet, staring at nothing. I didn’t pry—just made tea, set out biscuits, and sat with her. She was silent for ages, wrestling with something inside. Then suddenly, she let it out.
“It’s been two years… Not a call. Not a card. Not even a text. I tried ringing—number’s dead. No idea where she lives now…”
She paused, like decades flashed before her eyes. Then, as if a dam broke, the words spilled out.
“We had a happy family. Jonathan and I married young, but we waited to have kids—wanted time just for us first. His job took us everywhere. We were close, always laughing, loved making our home together. He built us a nest—a proper three-bed in the heart of Manchester. His pride and joy…”
When our daughter, Emily, was born, Jonathan lit up all over again. He carried her everywhere, read her stories, spent every spare minute with her. Watching them, I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. Then, ten years ago, Jonathan was gone. A long illness—we fought it to the end, spent every penny we had. After that… silence. Emptiness. Like part of my heart had been torn out.
After her dad died, Emily started pulling away. Moved out, wanted her own place. I didn’t argue—she was grown, had her own life. She visited, we talked, things seemed normal. Then, two years ago, she came over and dropped it on me—she was taking out a mortgage, buying her own flat.
I sighed and told her the truth: I couldn’t help. The savings Jonathan and I scraped together were gone—all spent on his care. My pension barely covers bills and meds. Then she suggested… selling the flat. “We could get you a small place on the outskirts,” she said. “The rest would cover my deposit.”
I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t about the money—it was about memory. These walls, every corner—Jonathan put his hands into them. My whole happiness, my whole life, is here. How could I let that go? She shouted that her dad did this all for her, that the flat would be hers someday anyway, that I was selfish. I tried explaining I just wanted her to come back here one day and remember us… But she wasn’t listening.
She slammed the door that day. Silence ever since. No calls, no visits—not even at Christmas. Later, I heard from a mutual friend she’d gotten the mortgage anyway, working herself ragged—two jobs, never stopping. No partner, no kids. Even her best mate 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—she must’ve changed her number. Maybe 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 long I’ve got left in this flat, how many evenings I’ll sit by the window waiting. And I still don’t know what I did to hurt her so badly…
