Two Years in Silence: She Erased Me from Her Life as I Near 70
Two years had slipped away without a word. My daughter, once so dear to me, had vanished from my life as though I no longer existed. And here I stand, on the cusp of seventy, with nothing but silence between us.
Everyone in the village knows Eleanor Whitmore. At sixty-eight, she lives alone, but never seems lonelyalways gracious, always welcoming. I often bring her a tin of shortbread or a jar of marmalade when I visit, just to share a pot of tea and a chat. She speaks fondly of the travels she and her late husband took, the places they saw, but seldom mentions family. Then, one frosty evening before Christmas, as I handed her a box of mince pies, she shared a story that left me cold to the bone.
That night, Eleanor wasnt her usual self. Where she was usually warm and talkative, she sat motionless, her gaze distant. I said nothingjust brewed the tea, arranged the biscuits, and waited. After a long silence, she drew a trembling breath.
Its been two years now Not a letter, not a call. Ive tried ringingthe lines dead. I dont even know where she lives anymore.
She hesitated, as if gathering strength, then the words spilled out like a river breaking its banks.
We were happy once. Arthur and I married young but waited to have childrenwe wanted time for just the two of us. His work took us across the country, and we laughed every step of the way. We poured our hearts into our home, a sturdy three-bedroom in the heart of York. Arthur built much of it himselfhis greatest pride.
When our daughter, Beatrice, was born, Arthur was radiant. He carried her in his arms, told her stories, cherished every moment. Watching them, I thought my heart might burst with joy. But ten years ago, Arthur left us. A long illness drained our savings, and then nothing. Just an aching void where he had been.
After her fathers death, Beatrice grew distant. She moved into a flat, eager for independence. I didnt interfereshe was a woman grown, after all. She visited sometimes; we spoke. It was ordinary. Then, two years ago, she came to me with news: she was taking out a mortgage to buy her own home.
I sighed and told her I couldnt help. What little wed saved had gone on Arthurs care. My pension barely covers the roof over my head and the medicines I need. Then she suggested selling the house. We could find you a cosy little place in the countryside, she said, and the rest would cover my deposit.
I couldnt do it. It wasnt the moneyit was the memories. Every beam, every brick, Arthur had touched. My life was woven into these walls. How could I let them go? 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 explain that I only wanted her to come back someday and remember us But she wouldnt listen.
She slammed the door that day. Not a whisper since. No calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, a mutual friend told me shed taken the mortgage, working herself to the bonetwo jobs, no time for anything. No husband, no children. Even her friend hasnt seen her in months.
And I? I wait. Every day, I glance at the telephone, willing it to ring. It never does. I cant reach hernumber changed, no doubt. She doesnt want to see me. Doesnt want to hear me. Believes I wronged her that day. But Ill be seventy soon. I dont know how many evenings Ill spend by this window, waiting. Or what I did to drive her so far away.
