Two years had slipped by without a single word from my daughter. She had erased me from her life. And soon, I would be turning seventy…
In our quiet neighbourhood, everyone knew my neighbour, Margaret Whitmore. At sixty-eight, she lived alone. Occasionally, I’d pop round with a tin of biscuits for tea, just to be neighbourly. She was kindalways elegant, always smiling, full of stories about her travels with her late husband. But she rarely spoke of family. Yet, on the eve of the last Christmas, as I brought over my usual offering of mince pies, something in her shifted. That evening, I heard a story that still chills me to the bone.
When I stepped inside, Margaret wasnt her usual self. Normally bright and lively, she sat motionless that night, her gaze fixed on nothing. I didnt press. I just brewed the tea, set out the biscuits, and sat beside her in silence. For a long while, she said nothing, as if wrestling with herself. Then, abruptly, the words spilled out.
“Two years… Not one call. No card, no message. I tried ringing, but her number doesnt exist anymore. I dont even know where she lives now…”
She fell quiet, as though decades were flashing before her eyes. Then, like a dam breaking, Margaret began to speak.
“We had a happy family. James and I married young, but we waited to have childrenwe wanted time for ourselves first. His job took us all over the world. We were partners in everything, always laughing, and we adored our homea three-bedroom terrace in the heart of London. He spent years restoring it himself. His pride and joy…”
When our daughter, Emily, was born, James lit up like never before. He carried her everywhere, read her bedtime stories, spent every free moment with her. Watching them, I thought myself the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, James left us. He fought illness for years, drained our savings trying to beat it. And then… silence. Emptiness. Like someone had torn a piece of my heart clean out.
After he died, Emily drifted away. She moved into a flat, wanted independence. I didnt argueshe was grown, she had a life to build. She visited, we talked, everything seemed normal. Then, 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 savingseverything James and I had put asidewere nearly gone, spent on his treatments. My pension barely covered bills and my own medicines. She suggested… selling the house. “We could get you a little flat in the suburbs, and the rest would go toward my deposit.”
I couldnt do it. It wasnt about money. It was memory. Those walls, every cornerJames had shaped them with his own hands. My whole life, my happiness, lived in that house. How could I let it go? She shouted that her father had done it all for her, that the house would be hers eventually, that I was being selfish. I tried to tell her I just hoped one day shed come back and remember us… But she wouldnt listen.
That night, she slammed the door. Since thennothing. No calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, a mutual friend told me shed got her mortgage anywayworking two jobs now, running herself ragged. No family, no children. Even her friend hadnt seen her in six months.
And me? I wait. Every day, I stare at the phone, willing it to ring. But it never does. I cant even call hershes changed her number. She doesnt want to see me. Doesnt want to hear me. She must think I betrayed her that day. But soon, Ill be seventy. I dont know how many years I have left in this house, how many evenings Ill spend at the window, hoping. And I still dont understand how I hurt her so deeply…
