Two years have passed. In all that time, my daughter hasn’t called or sent a single message. She doesn’t want to see me anymore, and I’ll be turning 70 soon.
My neighbor, Margaret Williams, just celebrated her 68th birthday. She lives alone, and I drop by now and then—bringing biscuits or a cake to share over tea, just to ease her loneliness. Margaret’s got this wonderful warmth about her, always cheerful, quick to laugh, full of stories about her travels and adventures. But she never talked much about family. Not until that one evening, right before the holidays, when she finally opened up.
That night, when I stopped by, she wasn’t her usual self. Her smile was forced, her eyes dull. I’d brought some homemade shortbread and a box of chocolates, hoping to cheer her up. We sat quietly at the table until she finally broke the silence.
“It’s been two years,” she said softly, staring into her teacup. “Not a call, not a card, not a word… I tried calling her on holidays, but the number doesn’t work anymore. She must’ve 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 to tell her story.
We used to be such a happy family. I met Anthony when we were in our early twenties. We weren’t in a rush to have kids—we wanted to travel, enjoy life first. He worked for a good firm, traveled often for work, and sometimes I’d go with him. We worked hard, but we had fun too.
Eventually, we saved enough for a proper three-bedroom house. Anthony fixed it up himself—measured every shelf, hung every door with such care. That house wasn’t just bricks and mortar; it was everything we’d dreamed of.
A few years later, our daughter finally came along. Anthony adored her—carried her everywhere, read her bedtime stories, took her to the park. I remember thinking, *This is it. This is the life I always wanted.*
But happiness doesn’t last, does it? Ten years ago, Anthony passed after a long illness. We spent nearly all our savings trying to save him, but it wasn’t enough. After he was gone, the house felt hollow, like the warmth had left with him.
Our daughter changed after that. She grew distant, stayed over at friends’ places more often, then moved into a rented flat. I understood—everyone needs their space. We still saw each other now and then, kept in touch. Until the day everything stopped.
Two years ago, she came to me with a request. She wanted to get a mortgage for her own place and asked me to help—sell our house, downsize to a small one-bed flat, and use the rest for her deposit.
I couldn’t do it. Not out of selfishness. That house… it was the last thread tying me to Anthony. Every wall, every piece of furniture, even the smell of his old books—it was all I had left.
I tried explaining it to her. But she wouldn’t listen.
“Dad built this *for me*!” she shouted. “And you’re clinging to it like some sort of graveyard!”
Then she slammed the door and left. And since then—nothing.
I heard through a mutual friend that she got the mortgage on her own. Works two jobs, still renting. No kids, no partner—just work, home, work.
I tried calling. No answer. She must’ve blocked my number. A friend who’s seen her says she looks tired, thinner. But she won’t let anyone close.
I don’t know how to reach her. How to apologize when I’m not even sure what for. I’m not young anymore—70 isn’t far off. And my heart aches every day.
Some evenings, I sit by the window, staring into the dark, imagining her walking through the door, saying, *Mum, I missed you.* But maybe that’s just an old woman’s wishful thinking.
I keep asking myself—did I do the right thing? Should I have let go of the past for her future? Or was I right to hold onto what little was left of our family?
No answers.
Just silence in an empty house, and Anthony’s photo on the mantel, staring back at me like he’s asking, *How did it come to this?*
And I don’t know what to say.
