Two Years in Silence: She Cut Me Off as I Nears My Threescore and Ten
Two years had slipped by without a word. My daughter had vanished from my life, leaving no trace. And here I stand, on the cusp of seventy
The whole village knows Margaret Wilkins. At sixty-eight, she lives alone in her cottage, a picture of quiet dignity. Now and then, I bring over a scone or a jar of marmaladejust a neighbourly gesture. Shes gentle, well-mannered, always with a smile, fond of recounting her travels with her late husband. Yet she seldom speaks of kin. Then, one frosty evening before Christmas, as I handed her a tin of shortbread, she shared a tale that left me uneasy. It was the first Id heard of it, and it haunts me still.
That night, Margaret was not her usual self. Where shed once been warm and chatty, she sat withdrawn, her gaze distant. I brewed the tea, arranged the biscuits, and waited. For a long while, she said nothing, as if wrestling with ghosts. Then, with a tremble in her voice, she began.
Two years Not a letter, not a knock at the door, not so much as a telegram. I rang herthe line was dead. I dont even know where she lives now.
Her words hung heavy in the air before she continued, the floodgates opening at last.
We were happy once. Thomas and I wed young but waited for childrenwanted time for adventures first. His work took us across the country. We laughed often, loved our home, made it ours brick by brick. He built it with his own handsa sturdy three-bedder in the heart of York. His greatest pride.
When our daughter, Eleanor, arrived, Thomas was besotted. He carried her on his shoulders, spun tales for her, cherished every moment. Watching them, I thought myself blessed beyond measure. But ten years past, Thomas was gone. A long illness drained our savings, and then silence. A hollowness, as if part of me had been carved away.
After her fathers passing, Eleanor grew distant. She took a flat in town, eager for independence. I didnt begrudge hershe was grown, after all. She visited, we spoke, things seemed steady. Then, two years ago, she came by and declared she meant to take a loan to buy her own house.
I sighed and explained I hadnt the means to help. What little wed saved had gone to Thomass care. My pension scarcely covers the roof and my pills. Then she suggested selling the cottage. We could find you a snug little place in the countryside, she said, and the rest would see me settled.
I couldnt do it. It wasnt the moneyit was the memories. These beams, every nookThomas shaped them. My whole life was here. How could I part with it? She raged, said her father had done it all for *her*, that the house would be hers one day regardless, that I was being cruel. I tried to tell her I only wanted her to return someday and remember us But she wouldnt hear it.
She stormed out that evening. Not a word since. No letters, no visits, not even at Yuletide. Later, a mutual acquaintance mentioned shed taken the loan, working herself to the bonetwo jobs, no rest. No sweetheart, no little ones. Even her friend hasnt clapped eyes on her in months.
And I? I wait. Each dawn, I glance at the door, half-expecting a knock. It never comes. I cant even reach hernumber gone, I suppose. She doesnt wish to see me. Doesnt care to hear me. Thinks I wronged her that day. But Ill be seventy soon. I dont know how many more evenings Ill sit by this hearth, wondering. Or what I did to drive her so far away.
