Two years have gone by without a single word from my daughter: she has erased me from her life, and I am approaching seventy
In our block, everyone knows my neighbor, ÉlodieFournier. She is sixtyeight, lives by herself, and occasionally I stop by with a few pastries for tea, simply as a neighborly gesture. She is pleasant, a refined woman who never stops smiling, fond of recounting 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 tale that still chills my heart.
When I entered her flat, Élodie was not in her usual mood. Normally lively and full of energy, she sat that evening with a distant stare, eyes fixed on nothing. I asked no questions; I simply set the tea down, placed the biscuits, and took a seat beside her in silence. She stayed mute for a long while, as if wrestling with herself. Then, abruptly, she let loose:
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 paused. It seemed as though years, even decades, passed before her eyes. Then, as if a dam had burst, Élodie began to speak.
We had a happy family. Charles and I married young, but we waited before having childrenwe wanted to live for ourselves first. His job let us travel a great deal. We were close, laughed often, and loved the house we built together. With his own hands he created a spacious threeroom home in the heart of Lyon. It was the dream of his life
When our daughter, Amélie, was born, Charles seemed reborn. He would hold her, read stories to her, spend every free moment with her. Watching them, I thought I was the happiest woman alive. Yet ten years ago Charles left us. He fought illness for a long time; we drained our savings trying to save him. Then silence. An emptiness, as if a piece of my heart had been ripped away.
After her fathers death, Amélie drifted apart. She took an apartment, wanted to live on her own. I didnt objectshe was an adult and had to build her own life. She still visited, we talked, everything seemed normal. But two years ago she came and told me she wanted to take out a mortgage to buy her own home.
I sighed and explained that I could not help. The little nest egg Charles and I had set aside had almost vanishedeverything had gone toward his treatment. My pension barely covered bills and 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 could not agree. It wasnt about money; it was about memory. Every wall, every cornerCharles had shaped 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 apartment would belong to her anyway, accusing me of selfishness. I tried to tell her I only hoped that one day she would return and remember us but she wouldnt hear a word.
That day she slammed the door. Since then the house has been quiet. No call, no visit, not even at holidays. Later I learned from a mutual friend that she did get the loan and is now exhausting herself at work two jobs, an endless race. No family, no children. Her friend even admitted she hadnt 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 her she changed her number. She probably doesnt want to see or hear me anymore. She must think I betrayed her by refusing that day. Yet soon I will be seventy. I dont know how much longer I have in this flat, how many evenings I will spend at the window hoping. I cannot understand how I could have caused her such pain.
Two Years Without a Word from My Daughter: She Has Erased Me from Her Life, and I’ll Soon Be 70…
