Two years have slipped by without a word from my daughter. She has erased me from her life, and soon Ill be turning seventy
Two whole years. Not a single letter, not even a whisper. Shes wiped me clean from her world. And soon, Ill be seventy.
In our quiet corner of London, everyone knows my neighbour, Margaret Whitmore. Shes sixty-eight, living alone. Now and then, I drop by with scones or a slice of cake for teajust being neighbourly. Shes kind, always elegantly dressed, with a smile that never quite reaches her eyes. She loves recounting her travels with her late husband, Henry, but rarely speaks of family. Then, one evening last Christmas, as I brought over mince pies, she suddenly unravelled. What she told me that night still chills my bones.
When I stepped into her flat, Margaret wasnt herself. Usually so lively, she sat motionless, her gaze fixed on nothing. I didnt pry, just brewed the tea, set out the biscuits, and waited. The silence stretched, thick as fog, until finally, she spoke.
“Two years Not one call. No card, no text. I tried her numberdisconnected. I dont even know where she lives now.”
She paused, as though decades flickered behind her eyes. Then, like a dam breaking, the words rushed out.
“We were happy once. Henry and I married young but waited for childrenwe wanted time for ourselves first. His job took us everywhere. We laughed often, loved our little flat in Camden. He built it for us, you know? Fixed every creaking floorboard, painted every wall. His dream home.”
When our daughter, Emily, was born, Henry came alive all over again. He carried her everywhere, read her bedtime stories, spent every free moment with her. Id watch them and think: *This is happiness.* Then, ten years ago, Henry left us. The illness ate through our savings, every last penny. And after silence. Emptiness. Like part of my heart had been carved out.
After her father died, Emily drifted away. She moved into a flat of her ownwanted independence. I didnt object; she was grown, after all. She visited, we talked, everything seemed normal. But two years ago, she came to me with a plan: a mortgage for her own place.
I sighed and explained I couldnt help. Our savingsHenrys and minewere gone, swallowed by hospital bills. My pension barely covered my medicines. Then she suggested selling the flat. *”We could get you a little place outside the city, use the rest for my deposit.”*
I couldnt do it. It wasnt about moneyit was memory. These walls, every crack, every shadowHenry had shaped them. My whole life lived here. How could I let it go? She shouted that her father had built it for *her*, that the flat would be hers one day anyway, that I was selfish. I begged her to understandone day, she might come back here and remember us. But she wouldnt listen.
That day, she slammed the door. Since then: nothing. No calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, a mutual friend told me shed gotten the mortgage anywayworks two jobs now, running herself ragged. No family, no children. The friend hasnt seen her in 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 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 flat, how many evenings Ill spend at the window, hoping. And I still dont understandhow did I hurt her so badly?
