Two years had passed. Not a single word from my daughter since then. She erased me from her life. And soon—I’ll be 70.
Everyone in the neighbourhood knows my neighbour, Evelyn Margaret. She’s 68, living alone. Sometimes I drop by with something for tea—just to be neighbourly. She’s kind, refined, always smiling, loves telling stories about trips she took with her late husband. But she rarely speaks of family. Then, just before the holidays, when I stopped by with treats as usual, she unexpectedly opened up. That was the first time I heard the story that still chills me to this bone.
When I stepped into her flat, Evelyn wasn’t herself. Usually lively, that evening she sat quietly, staring at nothing. I didn’t pry—just made tea, set out biscuits, and sat beside her in silence. She was quiet for a long time, as if wrestling with herself. Then, suddenly, she exhaled:
“It’s been two years… Not a call, not a card, not even a text. I tried ringing—her number doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t even know where she lives now.”
She paused. It was as if decades flickered through her mind. Then, like a dam breaking, Evelyn spoke.
“We were a happy family. Robert and I married young, but we weren’t in a rush for children—wanted time just for us. His work let us travel everywhere. We laughed, loved our home, built it together. He made us a nest—a spacious three-bed in central London. His life’s dream…”
When our daughter, Alice, was born, Robert bloomed again. He carried her in his arms, read her stories, spent every spare moment with her. Watching them, I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, Robert left us. He was ill so long—we fought for him, spent everything we had. Then… silence. Emptiness. As if someone tore a piece from my heart.
After her father’s death, Alice drifted away. Rented a place, wanted to live on her own. I didn’t argue—she was grown, let her build a life. She visited, we talked, everything seemed normal. Then, two years ago, she came to me and said outright she wanted to take out a mortgage and buy her own flat.
I sighed and explained—I couldn’t help. The savings Robert and I scraped together were nearly gone—all spent on his care. My pension barely covers bills and medicine. Then she suggested… selling the flat. “We’ll get you a one-bed somewhere on the outskirts,” she said, “and the rest can be my deposit.”
I couldn’t. It wasn’t about money. It was memory. These walls, every corner—Robert built them with his hands. My happiness, my life, happened here. How could I give it up? She shouted that her father had done it all for her, that the flat would be hers eventually anyway, that I was selfish. I tried to explain I just wanted her to come back one day and remember us… But she didn’t hear me.
That day, she slammed the door and left. Since then—nothing. No calls, no visits, not even on holidays. Later, I heard from a mutual friend she’d taken the mortgage after all—working herself ragged now, two jobs, always running. No partner, no children. Even her friend says she hasn’t seen her in six months.
And me? I still wait. Every day I glance at the phone, hoping it rings. It never does. I can’t even reach her—she must have changed her number. Maybe she doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to hear me. Thinks I betrayed her by not giving in. But I’m nearly 70. I don’t know how much longer I’ll last in this flat, how many more evenings I’ll sit by the window, waiting. And I don’t know what I did that hurt her so badly.
