Two Years in Silence: She Wiped Me from Her World as I Approach Seventy
Two years had slipped by. In all that time, my daughter hadnt written a single line. Shed wiped me from her world. And here I stand, nearly seventy
Everyone round here knows old Margaret Wilkins. Sixty-eight, living alone. Sometimes I bring over a little something for teajust being friendly. Shes gentle, polished, always with a smile, loves chatting about holidays with her late husband. But she hardly mentions family. Then, just before Christmas, when I dropped by with some shortbread as usual, she caught me off guard with a confession. It was the first Id heard the tale that still sends a shiver through me.
That evening, Margaret wasnt quite right. Normally bright and talkative, she sat still, gazing at nothing. I didnt pushjust brewed the tea, laid out the digestives, and settled beside her in the quiet. For a long while, she said nothing, as if fighting with herself. Then came a trembling sigh.
Two years now Not a word. No calls, no letters, not even a message. I tried ringingthe numbers gone. I dont even know where she lives anymore.
She stopped, her eyes fixed on something far away. Then, like a dam giving way, the words spilled out.
We were happy once. Geoffrey and I married young but waited for childrenwanted time just for us. His work took us everywhere. We laughed endlessly, loved our home, made it ours together. He built it with his own handsa proper three-bedder in the heart of London. His pride and joy.
When our daughter, Eleanor, arrived, Geoffrey was radiant. He carried her everywhere, read her bedtime tales, spent every spare minute with her. Watching them, I thought myself the luckiest woman alive. But ten years back, Geoffrey was gone. A long illness swallowed our savings, and then silence. A hollow space, like part of me had been torn away.
After her fathers passing, Eleanor drifted. Rented a place, wanted her own life. I didnt fussshe was grown, after all. She visited, we talked, things felt ordinary. Then two years ago, she turned up and announced she was taking a mortgage to buy her own home.
I sighed and told her I couldnt help. What little wed saved went on Geoffreys care. My pension barely keeps the lights on and pays for my pills. Then she suggested selling the house. We could get you a little place out in Kent, she said, and the rest could cover my deposit.
I couldnt do it. It wasnt the moneyit was the memories. These walls, every beamGeoffrey put them there. My whole life was 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 being selfish. I tried to explain I just wanted her to come back someday and remember us But she wasnt listening.
She slammed the door that day. Not a word since. No calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, a mutual mate mentioned shed taken the loan, working herself to the bonetwo jobs, no time for anything. No husband, no kids. Even her friend hasnt clapped eyes on her in months.
And me? I just wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, willing it to ring. It never does. I cant even reach hernumber changed, I reckon. She doesnt want to see me. Doesnt want to hear me. Thinks I failed her that day. But Ill be seventy soon. I dont know how many evenings Ill spend by this window, waiting. Or what I did to wound her so deeply.
