**Diary Entry, 15th March**
Two years have passed. Not a single call, not a single message from my daughter. She no longer wants to see me, and I’ll be seventy soon.
My neighbour, Margaret Thompson, turned sixty-eight last week. She lives alone, and now and then, I drop by—bring some biscuits or a cake to ease her solitude. Margaret is a warm, open-hearted woman with a sharp wit. She loves to talk about her travels, her life. But she never speaks of family. Only once, on a quiet evening before the holidays, did she let her guard down.
That night, she wasn’t herself. Her eyes were dull, her smile forced. I’d brought her a homemade pie and some sweets, hoping to lift her spirits. We sat in silence until she finally spoke.
“Two years,” she murmured, staring into her tea. “Not a word—no calls, no letters. I’ve tried reaching her on holidays, but her number doesn’t work anymore. Maybe she changed it. I don’t even know where she lives now.”
Her voice trembled like an autumn leaf in the wind. Then, with a heavy sigh, she began her story.
Once, we were a happy family. I met Robert when we were both in our twenties. We weren’t in a rush for children—first, we wanted to see the world, live for ourselves. He worked for a good firm, often travelled for business, and sometimes I joined him. We worked hard but enjoyed life too.
In time, we bought a spacious three-bedroom house. Robert renovated it himself—every shelf, every door, measured with care. That house wasn’t just a home; it was everything we’d dreamed of.
Years later, our daughter, Emily, was born. Robert adored her—carried her in his arms, read her bedtime stories, took her to the park. Back then, I thought life couldn’t be more perfect.
But happiness doesn’t last. Ten years ago, Robert passed after a long illness. We spent nearly all our savings on treatments, but nothing could save him. After he was gone, the house fell silent, as if the warmth had left with him.
Emily changed after her father’s death. She pulled away—stayed with friends, then moved into a rented flat. I understood; everyone needs space. We saw less of each other, but we stayed in touch. Until one day.
Two years ago, she came to me with a request. She wanted a mortgage for her own place. Asked me to help—sell our house, buy me a small flat, and use the rest for her deposit.
I couldn’t agree. Not out of selfishness. That house—it’s the last thread tying me to Robert. Everything there reminds me of him: the walls, the furniture, the smell of old books.
I tried explaining, but she wouldn’t listen.
“Dad built this for *me*!” she shouted. “And you’re clinging to it like a graveyard!”
Then she slammed the door. Not a word since.
Recently, a mutual friend told me she got the mortgage alone. Works two jobs, still renting. No children, no partner—just work, home, work.
I’ve tried calling. No answer. Maybe she changed her number. The friend who sees her says she looks exhausted, thinner. But she keeps everyone at a distance.
I don’t know how to reach her. How to apologise—though I’m not sure what for. I’m not young anymore. Seventy soon. And my heart aches with longing.
On long evenings, I sit by the window, staring into the dark, hoping one day the door will open and she’ll say, “Mum, I’ve missed you.” But perhaps that’s just an old woman’s fantasy.
I ask myself: did I do the right thing? Should I have sacrificed the past for her future? Or was holding onto our memories the right choice?
No answers.
Only silence in this empty house and Robert’s photo on the wall, as if he, too, is asking, *Why did it end like this?*
And I don’t know what to say.
**Lesson:** Some wounds never heal. Some silences last too long. And sometimes, love isn’t enough to bridge the gap between two stubborn hearts.
