It’s been two years. Not a single call, not even a text. My daughter doesn’t want to see me anymore, and I’ll be 70 soon.
My neighbor, Margaret Whitmore, just turned 68. She lives alone, so I drop by now and then with a cup of tea and some biscuits to keep her company. Margaret’s lovely—bright, kind, with this dry sense of humor. She’ll talk for hours about her travels, books, anything… but never about family. That is, until one night, just before Christmas, she finally let it all out.
I remember walking in that evening, and she wasn’t herself. 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 in silence until, out of nowhere, she spoke.
“Two years,” she said quietly, staring into her tea. “Not a word from my daughter. No calls, no cards. I tried ringing her on her birthday, but the number’s dead. Must’ve changed it. I don’t even know where she lives now…”
Her voice trembled like a leaf in the wind. Then, with a heavy sigh, Margaret began her story.
We were happy once. I met Robert when we were in our twenties—young, reckless, in love. We weren’t in a rush for kids. First, we wanted to see the world, live a little. He had a good job, traveled a lot for work, and I’d sometimes join him. We worked hard, but life was full.
Eventually, we bought a nice three-bedroom house in Surrey. Robert did most of the renovations himself—measured every shelf, sanded every doorframe. That house wasn’t just walls to us. It was everything we’d dreamed of.
Years later, our daughter came along. Charlotte. Robert adored her. He’d carry her on his shoulders, read her bedtime stories, take her to the park. I thought we’d done it—the perfect life.
But happiness doesn’t last. Ten years ago, cancer took Robert. We spent nearly all our savings on treatment, but… it wasn’t enough. After he was gone, the house felt hollow, like all the warmth had left with him.
Charlotte changed. She pulled away—spent more nights at friends’ places, then moved into a rented flat. I understood. Everyone needs space. We still met up, still talked. Until one day, we didn’t.
Two years ago, she came to me with a plan. Wanted a mortgage for her own place. Asked me to sell the house, downsize, use the leftover for her deposit.
I couldn’t do it. Not out of selfishness—just… that house was the last thread tying me to Robert. Every corner of it still held him. I tried explaining, but she wouldn’t listen.
“That house was meant for me, too!” she shouted. “And you’re clinging to it like some sort of memorial!”
Then she slammed the door. Haven’t heard from her since.
A mutual friend mentioned she got the mortgage anyway. Works two jobs now, renting in Manchester. No partner, no kids—just work and exhaustion.
I’ve tried calling. No answer. Must’ve blocked me. The friend says she looks tired, thinner. Won’t let anyone close.
I don’t know how to reach her. How to say sorry when I’m not even sure what for. I’m not young anymore. Seventy’s creeping up, and some nights, the loneliness feels like it’s crushing me.
I sit by the window some evenings, staring at the street, half expecting her to walk up the path one day. To say, “Mum, I missed you.” But maybe that’s just an old woman’s fantasy.
Was I wrong? Should I have let go of the past for her sake? Or was I right to hold onto what little of us was left?
No answers. Just silence. And Robert’s photo on the mantel, looking at me like he’s asking, “How did it come to this?”
And I don’t know what to tell him.
