Two years have slipped by without a single word from my daughter: she has erased me from her life, and I am approaching my seventieth birthday
In our block everyone knows my neighbor, ÉlodieFournier. She is 68, lives alone, and every now and then I stop by with a few pastries for tea, simply as a friendly gesture. Élodie is kind, elegant, constantly smiling, and loves to recount the journeys she shared with her late husband. She seldom mentions her own family. Yet, on the eve of the last holidays, when I brought her the usual sweets, she suddenly decided to open up. That night I heard a tale that still freezes 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 vacant stare. I asked nothing, set the tea and biscuits down, and sat quietly beside her. She remained silent for a long time, as if battling herself. Then, abruptly, she blurted out:
Two years she hasnt called me once. No card, no message. I tried to reach her, but her number no longer exists. I dont even know where she lives now
She paused. It was as if years, even decades, flashed before her eyes. Then, as if a dam had burst, Élodie began to speak.
We once had a happy family. Charles and I married young, but we delayed having childrenwe wanted to live for ourselves first. His job allowed us to travel a lot. We were partners in crime, laughed often, and cherished the home we built together. With his own hands he built us a spacious threeroom nest in the heart of Lyon. It was the dream of his life
When our daughter Amélie was born, Charles seemed reborn. He would cradle her, read her stories, spend every free moment with her. Watching them, I felt 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 out.
After his death, Amélie drifted away. She moved into an apartment, wanted to live on her own. I didnt objectshe was an adult and had to build her own life. She visited, we talked, everything seemed normal. But two years ago she came and announced she wanted a mortgage to buy her own home.
I sighed and told her I couldnt help. The savings Charles and I had set aside were almost goneeverything had been spent on 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 go toward my down payment.
I couldnt agree. It wasnt about money; it was about memory. Every wall, every cornerCharles had crafted 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 eventually be hers anyway, and that I was selfish. 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, silence. No call, no visit, not even at holidays. Later I learned from a mutual friend that she did manage to get the loan and now works herself to exhaustion two jobs, an endless race. No family, no children. Her own friend said she hadnt been seen 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 any longer. She must think I betrayed her by refusing that day. Yet soon I will be 70. I dont know how much longer I have in this flat, how many evenings Ill spend at the window hoping. I still cant understand how I could have hurt her so much
