Two years have passed. In all that time, my daughter hasn’t called or sent so much as a single message. She no longer wants to see me, and I’ll be turning seventy soon.
My neighbor, Margaret Whitmore, recently celebrated her sixty-eighth birthday. She lives alone, and now and then I drop by—bringing cakes or biscuits to ease her solitude. Margaret is a warm, open-hearted woman with a sharp wit. She loves sharing stories of her travels and her youth, but she hardly ever speaks of family. Only once, on the eve of a holiday, did she let me see the sorrow she carried.
That evening, when I visited, Margaret wasn’t herself. Her eyes were dull, her smile forced. I’d brought homemade scones and a tin of shortbread, hoping to lift her spirits. We sat quietly at the kitchen table until she finally broke the silence.
“It’s been two years…” she murmured, staring into her tea. “Not a call, not a card, not a word. I tried reaching out during the holidays, but her number doesn’t work anymore. Changed it, I suppose. I don’t even know where she lives now…”
Her voice trembled like a leaf in the autumn wind. Then, with a heavy sigh, Margaret began her story.
Once, we were a happy family. I met Thomas when we were in our early twenties. We took our time before starting a family—there were places to see, adventures to have. He worked for a good firm, traveled often for business, and sometimes I went along. We worked hard but enjoyed life just as much.
In time, we bought a spacious three-bedroom house. Thomas did most of the refurbishing himself—measuring every shelf, adjusting every hinge with care. That house wasn’t just a home; it was everything we’d ever dreamed of. A few years later, our daughter finally came—long hoped for, deeply loved. Thomas adored her, carrying her on his shoulders, reading bedtime stories, taking her to the park. I thought I had all I could ever want.
But happiness doesn’t last. Ten years ago, Thomas passed after a long illness. We spent nearly all our savings on treatments, but nothing could save him. After he was gone, the house grew quiet, as if the warmth had left with him.
Our daughter changed. She pulled away—staying with friends, then renting a flat of her own. I understood; everyone needs space, so I never held her back. We saw each other less, but we stayed in touch. Until one day, we didn’t.
Two years ago, she came to me with a request. She wanted a mortgage for her own place and asked me to sell our house—buy a small flat for myself and use the rest for her deposit.
I couldn’t do it. Not out of selfishness. That house… it was the last thread connecting me to Thomas. Every wall, every piece of furniture, even the smell of old books on the shelf—it all carried him with it.
I tried explaining. She wouldn’t listen.
“Dad built all this for me too!” she shouted. “And you’re clinging to it like a graveyard!”
Then she slammed the door and left. Not a word since.
Recently, through a mutual friend, I learned she got the mortgage on her own. Works two jobs now, rents a tiny place. No children, no partner—just work, home, work.
I’ve tried calling. No answer. Must’ve changed her number. My friend who’s seen her says she looks thin, worn out. But she won’t let anyone close.
I don’t know how to reach her. How to apologize when I don’t even know what for. I’m not young anymore—seventy’s just around the corner. And my heart aches.
Sometimes I sit by the window at dusk, staring out, half-expecting to see her shadow in the doorway. To hear her say, “Mum, I missed you.” But maybe that’s just an old woman’s wishful thinking.
I keep asking myself—was I wrong? Should I have let go of the past for her sake? Or was holding onto our home the right thing?
No answers.
Just silence in an empty house and Thomas’s photo on the wall, his eyes seeming to ask, “How did it come to this…?”
And I’ve no reply to give.
