Two years have slipped by without a single word from my daughter: she has erased me from her life, and Im approaching my seventieth birthday
In our block everyone knows my neighbor, ÉlodieFournier. She is 68, lives alone, and occasionally I drop by with a few pastries for tea, just as neighbors do. She is kind, elegant, perpetually smiling, and loves to recount the trips she took with her late husband. She seldom mentions her own family. Yet on the eve of the last holidays, as I delivered my usual sweets, she suddenly decided to open up. That night I heard a story that still freezes my heart.
When I entered her flat, Élodie was not in her usual mood. Normally lively and energetic, she sat that evening with a distant stare. I asked nothing, simply set out the tea and biscuits and took a silent seat beside her. She remained mute for a long while, as if wrestling with herself, then abruptly said:
Two years She hasnt called me even once. No card, no message. I tried to reach her, but her number no longer exists. I dont even know where she lives any more
She fell silent for a moment, as if years or decades rushed past her eyes. Then, as if a dam had burst, she began to speak.
We had a happy family. Charles and I married young, but we waited to have childrenwe wanted first to live for ourselves. His job let us travel a great deal. We were close, laughed often, and cherished the house we built together. With his own hands he created a spacious threeroom home in the heart of Lyona dream come true
When our daughter Amélie was born, Charles seemed reborn. He would cradle her, read her stories, and spend every free moment with her. Watching them, I felt I was the happiest woman alive. But ten years ago Charles left us. He fought a long illness; we drained almost all our savings trying to save him. Then silence. An emptiness, as if a piece of my heart had been ripped away.
After his death, Amélie drifted away. She moved into an apartment, insisting on living on her own. I didnt objectshe was an adult and had to build her own life. She still visited, we talked, and everything seemed normal. Yet two years ago she came and told me she wanted to take out a mortgage to buy her own place.
I sighed and explained I couldnt help. The savings Charles and I had set aside had virtually vanishedeverything had gone to his treatment. My pension barely covered the bills and my medication. She then suggested selling the apartment. We could buy you a studio in the suburbs, and the rest would be my downpayment, she said.
I couldnt agree. It wasnt about money; it was about memory. Every wall, every cornerCharles had fashioned them himself. All my happiness, my whole life, lived there. How could I abandon it? She shouted that her father had done all that for her, that the flat would belong to her anyway, and that I was selfish. I tried to tell her I only hoped that someday she would return and remember us but she wouldnt hear a word.
That day she slammed the door. Since then theres only silenceno call, no visit, not even at holidays. Later a mutual friend told me she did obtain the loan and now works herself to exhaustiontwo jobs, a relentless race. No family, no children. Even her friend hasnt seen her in six months.
And I I wait. Every day I stare at the phone, hoping it will ring. Nothing. I cant even call hershes changed her number. She probably doesnt want to see or hear me any longer, perhaps believing I betrayed her by refusing that day. Yet soon Ill be 70. I dont know how much longer I have in this apartment, how many evenings Ill spend at the window hoping. I still cant comprehend how I could have hurt her so much.
