Now I’m 70. Lonely as a Sunday afternoon with nothing on the telly. A burden to my own daughter, no less.
*”Darling, could you pop round this evening? I’m ever so lost without you.”*
*”Mum, I’m swamped at work! Honestly, I’m sick of your whinging. Fine, I’ll come.”*
I couldn’t help it—I burst into tears. Painful, really. And just like that, memories flooded back: all those sleepless nights, the years I spent shouldering everything alone to raise her—my Emma. I gave her my whole life. And this is the thanks I get?
Maybe it’s my own fault. Spoiled her rotten, didn’t I? Let her have her way too often. And when she was eleven, I met a man—first time in years I felt like a woman again, loved, wanted. But Emma threw such a fit I had to end it, though it near broke my heart.
Now here I am at seventy. Alone. Properly alone. More aches than a rainy Monday, barely able to shuffle about. And my only daughter? Married twenty years and acts like I don’t exist. Three grandkids, too. Seen ’em? Only in photos. Why? Blowed if I know.
*”What is it this time?”* Emma huffed, barging into my flat.
*”The doctor’s given me injections. You’re a nurse—could you help?”*
*”What, expect me to trek over here every day? Pull the other one, Mum!”*
*”Emmy love, I can’t even step outside—black ice all over the pavements…”*
*”You paying me for this? Charity work’s not my thing. Won’t waste petrol for free!”*
*”I haven’t got the money…”*
*”Right, well, cheerio then. Find someone else!”*
Next morning, I left two hours early just to hobble to the clinic. Leaned on lamp posts, gasping, wiping my eyes. Never thought I’d live to see the day…
*”Madam, skip the queue—are you all right? You’re crying!”*
A young woman with kind eyes. She stopped me in the corridor, hand on my shoulder.
*”Oh no, dear. Crying for a different reason entirely…”*
We got talking. Poured my heart out, like confession at a vicar’s knee. Only person who’d listen, really. Turned out her name was Lily, lived two streets over. After that, she started dropping by—groceries, odd jobs, cuppas and chats.
And on my birthday? Only one visitor. Lily.
*”Couldn’t let your special day pass. You remind me so much of my mum… Makes my heart all warm, being with you,”* she said, hugging me tight.
That’s when I knew—she’d become more family than my own flesh and blood. Walks in the park, day trips to the countryside, Christmases together. Looked after me like I was her own.
Took me ages, but I finally made up my mind—I signed the flat over to Lily. She tried to refuse, bless her. But I insisted. My way of saying thanks for the warmth she’d brought me. Knew she wasn’t the sort to do kindness for gain.
Eventually, she moved me in with her—too frail to live alone. Sold my place, too. No messy court battles with Emma later.
And sure enough, daughter dear remembered me a year later. Turned up all fire and fury, called me a traitor, wished me dead. Had her eye on the flat, didn’t she? Bit of a let-down for her. Lily’s husband just stood in the doorway, quiet but firm:
*”Leave. And don’t come back. You’re not welcome here.”*
So there you have it. Strangers turned out kinder than my own. Hurts, doesn’t it? Funny how easily decency slips away. But if I had to choose again? Still Lily. Because she’s my family—the real sort.
