It’s been two years since I last heard my daughter’s voice. Eleanor—or Ellie, as she prefers—posts photos on social media, chats with friends, and lives her own life. But she doesn’t call or message me. Ellie’s a grown woman now, with a two-year-old daughter and a husband, living in their own flat in Manchester. I’ve always been strict—with myself and everyone around me. Ellie was no exception.
Being a parent means having standards. I wanted her to do well in school, help around the house, and take care of herself. Even now, with her own family, I can’t ignore her slip-ups. When I visited, I couldn’t help noticing the mess—clothes strewn about, dishes piling up, wardrobes in chaos. “How can you live like this?” I’d ask, straightening the folded jumpers on her shelves. Ellie would sigh like a moody teenager and start tidying just to stop my nagging.
Her little girl is growing up in a neglected room, plates sit unwashed for days, and her husband, in my opinion, is utterly useless. Who else but a mother would tell her the truth? But a year ago, everything changed. Ellie stopped answering my calls. The night before, I’d mentioned how my niece’s three-year-old was already reading. Ellie frowned and asked why I felt the need to compare children.
How could I not, when the difference is so obvious? That was our last conversation. Later, I found out she’d changed the locks and didn’t want to see me. I told myself it was just a passing spat—that she’d come to her senses and apologise. But time passed, and she stayed silent.
In August, it was my birthday. I waited for even a text, but Ellie didn’t remember. The next day, anger got the better of me, and I rang from a different number. “If you don’t want anything to do with me,” I said, “then you can get out of my flat!”
The thing is, six years ago, before her wedding, I put the flat in Ellie’s name. Her husband barely earned a penny, and I wanted to help—I was in a position to. But now that she’s cut me out of her life, she can find somewhere else to live! Ellie’s reply was icy—the paperwork was done, the flat was legally hers, and no one could force her out.
How can I be wrong? If she’s so independent, let her prove it by moving out! I gave her everything, and all I got in return was silence. My heart aches, but I can’t forgive betrayal.
