Two years have slipped by without a word from my daughter. She has erased me from her life, and soon Ill be turning seventy
In our neighbourhood, everyone knows my neighbour, Margaret Whitmore. Shes sixty-eight and lives alone. Now and then, I stop by with a few scones for tea, just to be neighbourly. Shes kindan elegant woman, always smiling, who loves recounting her travels with her late husband. But she rarely speaks of her family. Yet, just before the holidays, as I brought over my usual treats, she suddenly decided to open up. That evening, I heard a story that still chills my heart.
When I stepped into her home, Margaret wasnt herself. Usually lively and warm, she sat motionless, her eyes lost in thought. I didnt press herjust brewed the tea, set out the biscuits, and sat quietly beside her. She was silent for a long while, as if wrestling with herself. Then, all at once, the words spilled out.
“Two years Not one call. No card, no message. Ive tried reaching her, but her number no longer exists. I dont even know where she lives now.”
She fell silent again. It was as if decades were passing before her eyes. Then, like a dam breaking, Margaret began to speak.
“We had a happy family. Charles and I married young but waited for childrenwe wanted time for ourselves first. His work took us travelling often. We were partners, always laughing, and we adored the home we built together. With his own hands, he made it a havena spacious three-bedroom in the heart of London. His lifes dream”
When our daughter, Emily, was born, Charles seemed reborn. He carried her in his arms, read her stories, spent every free moment with her. Watching them, I felt like the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, Charles left us. He fought his illness for so long, and we drained our savings trying to save him. Then silence. Emptiness. As if a piece of my heart had been torn away.
After her fathers death, Emily drifted apart. She moved into a flat, wanting independence. I didnt argueshe was grown, entitled to her own life. She visited occasionally, and we talked. Everything seemed normal. But two years ago, she came to me with news: she wanted a mortgage to buy her own place.
I sighed and explained I couldnt help. Our savingsthe ones Charles and I had carefully set asidewere nearly gone, spent on his treatment. My pension barely covered bills and my own medicines. Then she suggested selling the house. “We could buy you a small flat in the suburbs, and the rest would cover my deposit.”
I couldnt agree. It wasnt about moneyit was about memory. These walls, every cornerCharles had shaped them himself. All my happiness, my whole life, was here. How could I let it 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 tell her I only hoped shed return someday and remember us But she wouldnt listen.
That day, she slammed the door. Since thennothing. No call, no visit, not even for Christmas. Later, a mutual friend told me shed gotten her mortgage after all but was drowning in worktwo jobs, endless exhaustion. No family, no children. Even her friend hadnt seen her in months.
And me? I wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, willing it to ring. But nothing. I cant even callshes changed her number. She must believe I betrayed her that day. But soon, Ill be seventy. I dont know how much time I have left in this house, how many evenings Ill spend by the window, hoping. And I still dont understand how love could turn to such silence.
In the end, some wounds never fully healbut they teach us that holding on to memories shouldnt mean losing the ones we love.
