Two years have gone by without a word from my daughter. Shes erased me from her life, and soon Ill be 70
Two whole years. Not a single letter, not a call. Shes cut me out completely. And before long, Ill be turning 70.
In our neighbourhood, everyone knows my neighbour, Margaret Whitmore. Shes 68, lives alone, and now and then, I pop round with a few biscuits for tea, just to be neighbourly. Shes kindan elegant woman, always smiling, loves talking about her travels with her late husband. But she hardly ever mentions family. Then, just before the holidays, when I dropped by with my usual treats, she suddenly opened up. That evening, I heard a story that still chills me to the bone.
When I stepped inside, Margaret wasnt herself. Normally lively, she just sat there, staring into space. I didnt pryjust made the tea, set out the biscuits, and sat quietly beside her. She stayed silent for a long time, wrestling with something. Then, all at once, it spilled out.
“Two years Not one call. No card, no message. I tried ringing, but her number doesnt exist anymore. I dont even know where she lives now.”
She paused. It was as if decades flashed before her eyes. Then, like a dam breaking, Margaret began to talk.
“We had a happy family. George and I married young but waited to have childrenwe wanted time for ourselves first. His job took us everywhere. We were partners, always laughing, and we adored our home, which wed built together. With his own hands, he made ita spacious three-bedroom in the heart of London. His dream”
When our daughter, Emily, was born, George came alive again. He carried her in his arms, read her stories, spent every free moment with her. Id watch them and think I was the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, George left us. He fought his illness for so long; we drained our savings trying to save him. Then silence. Emptiness. Like a piece of my heart had been torn out.
After her fathers death, Emily drifted away. She moved into a flat, wanted to live on her own. I didnt argueshe was grown, she had to build her life. She visited, we talked, everything seemed fine. But two years ago, she came over and told me she wanted a mortgage to buy her own place.
I sighed and explained I couldnt help. Our savingsthe ones George and I had scraped togetherwere nearly gone. All spent on his treatment. My pension barely covers the bills and my medicines. Then she suggested selling the house. “We could get you a little flat outside town, and the rest would go toward my deposit.”
I couldnt do it. It wasnt about moneyit was memory. These walls, every cornerGeorge had shaped them himself. All my happiness, my whole life, was here. How could I give that up? She shouted that her father had done it all for her, that the house would be hers one day anyway, that I was being selfish. I tried to say I just hoped shed come back one day and remember us But she wouldnt listen.
That day, she slammed the door. Since thennothing. No calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, a mutual friend told me shed gotten her mortgage anyway, but shes working herself to the bonetwo jobs, never stopping. No family, no children. Even her friend hasnt seen her in months.
And me? I wait. Every day, I look at the phone, hoping itll ring. But it never does. I cant even call hershes changed her number. She must not want to see me. Or hear me. She probably thinks I betrayed her that day. But soon, Ill be 70. I dont know how many years Ive left in this house, how many evenings Ill spend at the window, hoping. And I still dont understand how I hurt her so badly.
Some wounds never heal. Some silences last too long.
