Two years have slipped by without a word from my daughter. Shes wiped me from her life, and soon Ill turn seventy
Two whole years. Not a single letter, not a phone call. Ive been erased. And before long, Ill be seventy.
Everyone in our neighbourhood knows my neighbour, Margaret Whitcombe. Shes sixty-eight and lives alone. Now and then, I pop round with a few cakes for tea, just to be neighbourly. Shes a kind womanelegant, always smiling, loves reminiscing about her travels with her late husband. But she rarely speaks of her family. Then, just before last Christmas, as I brought over the usual treats, she suddenly opened up. That night, I heard a story that still chills me to the bone.
When I stepped into her home, Margaret wasnt herself. Usually lively, she sat there that evening, staring blankly. I didnt pryjust made the tea, set out the biscuits, and sat quietly beside her. She stayed silent for a long while, as if wrestling with herself. Then, out of nowhere, she said:
“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 paused. It was as if decades flickered through her mind. Then, like a dam breaking, Margaret began to talk.
“We had a happy family. George and I married young but waited to have childrenwe wanted time for ourselves first. His job took us everywhere. We were partners, always laughing, and we adored the home wed made together. He built it with his own handsa spacious flat right in the heart of London. His lifelong dream”
When our daughter, Emily, was born, George lit up. He carried her everywhere, read her bedtime stories, spent every free moment with her. Id watch them and think myself the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, George left us. He fought illness for so longwe drained our savings trying to save him. Then silence. A hole in my heart.
After her fathers death, Emily drifted away. She moved into a flat, wanted to live alone. I didnt argueshe was grown, needed her own life. She visited, we talked, things seemed normal. Then two years ago, she came and told me she wanted a mortgage to buy her own place.
I sighed and explained I couldnt help. Our savingsthe money George and I had set asidewere nearly gone, spent on his treatment. My pension barely covers bills and my own medicines. So she suggested selling the flat. “We could get you a little place in the suburbs, and the rest would cover my deposit.”
I couldnt do it. It wasnt about moneyit was memory. These walls, every cornerGeorge shaped them himself. All my joy, my whole life, is here. How could I let it go? She shouted that her father had done it all for her, that the flat would be hers one day anyway, that I was being selfish. I tried to tell her I just hoped shed come back someday and remember us But she wouldnt listen.
That day, she slammed the door. Since thennothing. No calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, a friend told me shed gotten her loan but was working herself raggedtwo jobs, no rest. No family, no children. Even her friend hasnt seen her in months.
And me? I wait. Every day, I stare at the phone, willing it to ring. But nothing. I cant even call hershes changed her number. She must not want to see me. Or hear me. She probably thinks I betrayed her that day. But soon, Ill be seventy. I dont know how much time I have left in this flat, how many evenings Ill spend at the window, hoping. And I dont understand how I couldve hurt her so badly
