Two years had gone by without a word from my daughtershed cut me out completely. And now, here I am, nearly 70
Everyone round here knows Margaret Wilkins. Shes 68, lives alone, and I sometimes pop round with a cuppa or a slice of cakejust being friendly. Shes lovely, always polite, full of stories about holidays she took with her late husband. But family? She hardly mentions them. Then, just before Christmas, when I dropped off some mince pies, she surprised me with something that left me gobsmacked.
That evening, Margaret wasnt her usual self. Normally chatty, she just sat there, lost in thought. I didnt pushjust made the tea, laid out the biscuits, and sat quietly with her. After a long silence, she let out a shaky sigh.
Two years Not a peep. No calls, no letters, nothing. I tried ringingher numbers disconnected. Dont even know where she lives now.
She trailed off, staring into the distance, then the words just spilled out.
We were happy, me and Geoffrey. Married young but waited to have kidswanted time for ourselves first. His job took us all over. We laughed nonstop, loved our home in the heart of London. He built it himselfa proper three-bed terrace, his pride and joy.
When our Emily was born, Geoffrey was over the moon. Carried her everywhere, read her bedtime stories, never missed a moment with her. Watching them, I thought I was the luckiest woman alive. Then, ten years ago, Geoffrey was gone. His illness wiped out our savings, and after just silence. Like a part of me had been ripped away.
After her dad passed, Emily drifted off. Got herself a flat, wanted her own space. I didnt fussshe was grown, after all. She visited, we talked, things felt normal. Then, two years back, she came round and said she was getting a mortgage to buy her own place.
I told her I couldnt helpwhat little wed saved went on Geoffreys care. My pension barely covers the bills and prescriptions. Then she suggested selling the house. We could get you a little place out in Kent, she said, and the rest could go towards my deposit.
I couldnt do it. Not about the moneyit was the memories. Every brick, every cornerGeoffrey put them there. My whole life was in these walls. How could I let that go? She snapped, saying her dad did it all for *her*, that the house would be hers one day anyway, that I was being selfish. I tried to explain I just wanted her to come back someday and remember us But she wasnt listening.
She stormed out that day. Not a word since. No calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, a mate of hers told me shed taken the mortgage, working herself to the bonetwo jobs, no life. No partner, no kids. Even her friends havent seen her in months.
And me? I just wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, hoping itll ring. It never does. Cant even reach hernumbers gone, I reckon. She doesnt want to see me. Doesnt want to hear me. Thinks I let her down. But Ill be 70 soon. Dont know how many more nights Ill spend by this window, wondering or what I did to push her away like this.
