Two years have passed. In all that time, my daughter hasn’t called or sent a single message. She no longer wants to see me, and I’ll soon be turning seventy.
My neighbour, Margaret Collins, recently celebrated her sixty-eighth birthday. She lives alone, and from time to time, I visit her—bringing something for tea to ease her solitude. Margaret is a remarkably warm and open woman, with a sharp sense of humour. She loves talking about her travels and her life, but she almost never speaks of family. Only once, on the eve of a holiday, did she open her heart to me.
That evening when I visited, Margaret wasn’t herself. Her eyes were dim, her smile forced. I’d brought homemade scones and a few sweets, hoping to lift her spirits. We sat in silence at the table until she finally spoke.
“It’s been two years,” she murmured, staring into her teacup. “Not a call, not a card, not a single word… I tried wishing her happy holidays, but her number doesn’t work anymore. She must have changed it. I don’t even know where she lives now.”
Her voice trembled like an autumn leaf in the wind. Then, with a heavy sigh, Margaret began her story.
Once, we were a happy family. I met Edward when we were in our twenties. We weren’t in a rush to have children—first, we wanted to see the world, live for ourselves. He worked for a good company, often travelling for business, and sometimes I joined him. We worked hard but savoured life too.
In time, we bought a spacious three-bedroom house. Edward renovated it himself—measuring every shelf, every door with precision. That house wasn’t just a home; it held all our hopes and dreams.
Years later, our long-awaited daughter was born. Edward adored her—carried her in his arms, read bedtime stories, took her to the park. I thought then that my life was perfect.
But happiness doesn’t last. Ten years ago, Edward passed away after a long illness. We spent nearly all our savings on his treatment, but it wasn’t enough. The house grew quiet and cold after he left, as if all warmth had gone with him.
After her father’s death, our daughter changed. She withdrew, stayed at friends’ houses, then moved into a rented flat. I understood—everyone needs their own space—so I didn’t hold her back. We met less often but stayed in touch. Until one day.
Two years ago, she came to me with a request. She wanted a mortgage for her own place and asked me to help—sell our house, buy me a small flat, and use the rest for her deposit.
I couldn’t agree. Not out of greed or selfishness, but because… that house was the last thread tying me to Edward. Every wall, every piece of furniture, even the scent of books on the shelf reminded me of him.
I tried explaining, but she wouldn’t listen.
“Dad built this for *me*!” she shouted. “But you cling to these walls like they’re a graveyard!”
Then the door slammed, and she was gone. Not a word since.
Recently, a mutual friend told me she got the mortgage herself. She works two jobs, still renting, no children, no family—just work, home, work.
I’ve tried calling. No answer. She must have changed her number. The friend who’s seen her says she looks exhausted, thinner. But she keeps everyone at arm’s length.
I don’t know how to reach her. How to apologise when I don’t even know what for. I’m not young anymore—seventy soon. And my heart aches with longing.
Some nights, I sit by the window, staring into the dark, hoping to see her shadow at the door. Hoping she’ll say, “Mum, I’ve missed you.” But perhaps that’s just an old woman’s dream.
I often wonder—did I do the right thing? Should I have sacrificed our past for her future? Or was holding onto our family’s memory the right choice?
There’s no answer.
Just silence in an empty house and Edward’s photo on the wall, as if he’s asking, too: “Why did it end this way…?”
And I have no reply.
Some bonds break too quietly to ever mend. But love lingers, even in the spaces between words left unspoken.
