Two years have passed. Not a single word from my daughter since then—she’s erased me from her life. And I’ll soon be turning seventy…
Everyone in our neighbourhood knows my neighbour, Margaret Whitmore. She’s sixty-eight, lives alone. Sometimes I drop by with something for tea—just to be neighbourly. She’s kind, refined, always smiling, loves reminiscing about her travels with her late husband. But she rarely speaks of family. Then, just before the holidays, when I stopped by with treats as usual, she surprised me with a confession. That evening, I heard a story that still chills me.
When I stepped into her flat, Margaret was out of sorts. Normally lively, that night she sat quietly, staring at nothing. I didn’t press, just made tea, set out biscuits, and sat beside her in silence. She stayed quiet a long while, wrestling with something. Then suddenly, she sighed:
“Two years… Not one call. No cards, no texts. I tried ringing—number disconnected. I don’t even know her address anymore.”
She paused briefly. Decades seemed to flicker behind her eyes. Then, as if a dam broke, she spoke.
“We were happy. Edward and I married young but waited to have children—wanted time for ourselves first. His job took us everywhere. We laughed often, loved our home, made it ours together. He built our nest—a spacious three-bed in central Bristol. His life’s dream.”
When our daughter, Charlotte, was born, Edward bloomed anew. He carried her everywhere, read her stories, spent every spare moment with her. Watching them, I thought myself the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, Edward was gone. A long illness drained our savings, our strength. Then… silence. Emptiness. Like a piece of my heart torn out.
After his death, Charlotte grew distant. Moved out, wanted independence. I didn’t object—she was grown, free to live her life. She visited, we talked, things were normal. Then, two years ago, she came to me bluntly: she wanted a mortgage, her own flat.
I explained gently—I couldn’t help. Our savings, what little remained after Edward’s care, were nearly gone. My pension barely covers bills and medicine. Then she suggested… selling the flat. Buy me a one-bed somewhere on the outskirts, use the rest for her deposit.
I couldn’t agree. It wasn’t about money—it was memory. These walls, every corner—Edward’s hands built them. My happiness, my life unfolded here. How could I let that 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 say I just wanted her to come back one day, remember us here… She didn’t listen.
That day, she slammed the door. Not a word since. No calls, no visits, not even holidays. Later, a mutual friend mentioned she’d gotten the mortgage, was working herself ragged—two jobs, constant grind. No family, no children. Even her friend hadn’t seen her in months.
And I… I just wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, hoping. But it never rings. I can’t reach her anymore—number changed, I suppose. She doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to hear me. Thinks I failed her that day. But I’m nearly seventy. I don’t know how long 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.
*Lesson learned: Love doesn’t always mean understanding. Sometimes the ones we cherish most walk away, and we’re left holding only the weight of their absence.*
