Two years had passed. In all that time, my daughter hadn’t written a single word. She’d erased me from her life. And soon, I’ll be seventy.
Everyone in the neighbourhood knows my neighbour, Margaret Hampton. She’s sixty-eight, living alone. Sometimes I drop by with something for tea—just to be neighbourly. She’s kind, refined, always smiling, loves talking about the places she traveled to with her late husband. But about family? She rarely speaks. Then, just before the holidays, as I came by with treats as usual, she suddenly opened up. And for the first time, I heard a story that still chills my heart.
When I stepped into her flat, Margaret wasn’t herself. Normally lively, that evening she sat silent, staring at nothing. I didn’t press her, just made the tea, set out biscuits, and sat quietly beside her. For a long while, she said nothing, as if wrestling with herself. Then, finally, she exhaled.
“It’s been two years… Not a call. Not a card. Not a text. I tried ringing—the number doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t even know where she lives now.”
She paused. It was as though decades flickered behind her eyes. Then, like a dam breaking, she spoke.
“We were happy. Robert and I married young but waited to have children—we wanted time for ourselves first. His job let us travel. We laughed often, loved our home, built it together. He made us a nest—a spacious three-bed in central Manchester. His life’s dream.”
“When our daughter, Emily, was born, Robert bloomed all over again. He carried her in his arms, read her stories, spent every spare moment with her. Watching them, I thought myself the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, Robert left us. He was ill for so long—we fought it, spent every penny we had. And then… silence. Emptiness. Like part of my heart had been torn out.”
“After her father died, Emily drifted away. Rented a flat, wanted independence. I didn’t object—she was grown, it was her life. She visited, we talked, things seemed normal. Then, two years ago, she came to me and said outright she wanted a mortgage, to buy her own place.”
“I sighed and told her I couldn’t help. The savings Robert and I put aside were nearly gone—most spent on his treatment. My pension barely covers bills and medicine. Then she suggested… selling the flat. Said we could get me a one-bed somewhere on the outskirts, and the rest would go toward her deposit.”
“I couldn’t agree. It wasn’t about money—it was memory. Those walls, every corner—Robert built them with his own hands. All my happiness, my life, lived there. How could I give it up? She shouted that her father had done it all for her, that the flat would be hers anyway, that I was selfish. I tried to explain—I just wanted her to come back someday, to remember us here… But she wouldn’t hear it.”
“That day, she slammed the door and left. Since then—nothing. No calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, a mutual friend told me she’d taken the mortgage and now worked herself ragged—two jobs, always rushing. No family, no children. Even her closest friends say they haven’t seen her in months.”
“And me? I just… wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, hoping it rings. But it never does. And now I can’t even reach her—she must have changed her number. Maybe she doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to hear me. Thinks I failed her by not giving in. But I’m nearly seventy. 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 don’t know what I did to hurt her so badly.”
