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 neighborhood everyone knows my neighbor, ÉlodieFournier. Shes 68, lives alone, and occasionally I stop by with a few pastries for tea, simply as a friendly gesture. Shes kind, a graceful woman whos always smiling, fond of recounting trips she took with her late husband. She rarely mentions her own family. Yet, on the eve of the last holidays, as I brought her the usual sweets, she suddenly opened up. That night she told a story that still chills my heart.
When I entered her flat, Élodie was not her usual self. Normally lively and energetic, she sat that evening, eyes staring into emptiness. I didnt ask anything; I set the tea and biscuits down and sat silently beside her. She kept quiet for a long spell, as if wrestling with herself. Then, abruptly, she blurted out:
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 if years, even decades, rushed past her mind. Then, as if a dam had broken, she 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 lot. We were inseparable, laughed often, and loved the house we built together. With his own hands he created a spacious threeroom home in the heart of Lyon. That was the dream of his life
When our daughter Amélie was born, Charles seemed reborn. He would hold her, read her stories, spend every free moment with her. Watching them, I thought I was the happiest woman on earth. Ten years ago, however, Charles passed away. He fought illness for a long time; we drained almost all our savings trying to save him. Then silence. An emptiness, as if a piece of my heart had been torn away.
After her fathers death, Amélie drifted apart. She took an apartment, wanted to live on her own. I didnt protestshe was an adult and had to build her own life. She visited, we talked, everything seemed normal. Two years ago she came and announced she wanted a mortgage to buy her own place.
I sighed and told her I couldnt help. The money Charles and I had set aside was 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 be my downpayment.
I couldnt agree. It wasnt about the money; it was about memory. Those walls, every cornerCharles had fashioned them himself. All my happiness, my whole life, lived there. How could I abandon everything? She shouted that her father had done it all for her, that the flat would end up with her anyway, and that I was selfish. I tried to tell her I only hoped she would one day return and remember us but she wouldnt hear a word.
That day she slammed the door. Since then theres been silence. No call, no visit, not even at holidays. Later I learned from a mutual friend that she did obtain the loan and now works herself to exhaustion two jobs, a neverending race. No family, no children. Her friend says she 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 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. But 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 understand how I could have hurt her so much.
