Two Years in Silence: She Cut Me Out as I Approach 70
Two years had slipped by without a word from my daughter. Shed wiped me from her world. And here I stand, on the brink of seventy
Everyone round here knows Margaret Wilkins. At sixty-eight, she lives alone, a quiet figure in our neighbourhood. Now and then, I drop by with a tin of shortbread or a packet of teajust keeping friendly. Shes gentle, well-spoken, always quick with a smile, fond of recalling holidays with her late husband. But family? Thats a rare topic. Then, just before Christmas, as I handed over a box of mince pies, she surprised me with a confession. It was the first Id heard of the tale that still knots my stomach.
That evening, Margaret wasnt her usual self. Normally chatty, she sat silent, gaze fixed on nowhere. I didnt pushjust brewed the tea, laid out the digestives, and waited. After a long pause, she drew a shaky breath.
Two years Not a letter, not a call. I tried her numberits dead. Dont even know where she lives now.
She trailed off, eyes distant. Then, as if the floodgates opened, the words poured out.
We were happy. Geoffrey and I married young but waited for childrenwanted time just for us. His work took us everywhere. We laughed endlessly, loved our home, built it bit by bit. He crafted it himselfa proper three-bedder in central London. His masterpiece.
When our daughter, Emily, arrived, Geoffrey was smitten. He carried her everywhere, read her bedtime tales, filled every spare moment with her. Watching them, I thought myself the luckiest woman breathing. But ten years back, Geoffrey was gone. A long illness drained our savings, and then silence. A hollow place where my heart had been.
After her father died, Emily drifted. Rented a flat, wanted her own life. I didnt fussshe was grown, after all. She visited, we talked, things felt normal. Then two years ago, she turned up and said she was getting a mortgage for her own place.
I sighed and told her I couldnt help. What little wed saved went on Geoffreys care. My pension barely covers the essentials. Then she suggested selling the house. We could get you a small flat in Croydon, she said, and the rest would cover my deposit.
I couldnt do it. Not about the moneythe memories. These walls, every beamGeoffrey put them there. My whole lifes here. How could I walk away? She shouted that her father had done it all for *her*, that the house would be hers one day anyway, that I was selfish. I tried to say I just wanted her to come back someday and remember us But she wasnt hearing it.
She slammed the door that day. Not a peep since. No calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, a mutual mate mentioned shed got the mortgage, working herself to the bonetwo jobs, no time to breathe. No partner, no kids. Even her friend hasnt clapped eyes on her in months.
And me? I wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, willing it to ring. It never does. I cant even reach hernumbers gone, I reckon. She doesnt want me. Doesnt want to hear me. Thinks I failed her that day. But Ill be seventy soon. I dont know how many more evenings Ill spend by this window, waiting. Or what I did to drive her so far away
