**Diary Entry 12th June**
Two years. Two long years without a word from my daughter. Shes wiped me from her life, and here I stand, nearly seventy.
Most in our village know Mrs. Eleanor Whitmoresixty-eight, living alone in her cottage down the lane. I often drop by with a tin of shortbread or a jar of jam, just to check in. Shes gracious, well-spoken, always ready with a smile, fond of recalling holidays with her late husband, Henry. But family? Thats a subject she seldom touches. Then, just before Christmas, when I brought over some mince pies as usual, she surprised me with a confession. A story that left me cold.
That evening, Eleanor wasnt her usual self. Normally bright-eyed, she sat still, gazing blankly. I didnt pushjust brewed the tea, set out the digestives, and waited. After a long silence, she exhaled, shaky.
Two years Not a letter, not a call. I tried ringingthe lines dead. I dont even know where she lives now.
Her voice trailed off, distant. Then, as if the floodgates opened, it all spilled out.
We were happy once. Henry and I married young but waited before having childrenwe wanted time for adventures. His work took us across the country. We laughed endlessly, cherished our home, built it together. He crafted every beama cosy three-bedroom in the heart of York. His masterpiece.
When our daughter, Emily, arrived, Henry was radiant. He carried her everywhere, read her fairy tales, devoted every spare moment to her. Watching them, I thought myself the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, Henry was gone. A long illness drained our savings, and then silence. A hollowness, as if part of me had vanished.
After Henrys death, Emily drifted away. Moved to a flat, craved independence. I didnt argueshe was an adult, after all. She visited, we chatted, things seemed ordinary. Then, two years ago, she announced she was taking a mortgage to buy her own place.
I sighed, explaining I couldnt help. What little wed saved went on Henrys care. My pension barely covers the heating and prescriptions. Then she suggested selling the house. We could get you a small flat outside the city, she said, and the rest could cover my deposit.
I couldnt. It wasnt the moneyit was the memories. These walls, every nookHenry built them. My whole life is here. How could I part with it? She snapped that her father had done it all for *her*, that the house would be hers one day anyway, that I was being selfish. I tried to explain I only wanted her to return 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 mutual friend mentioned shed taken the mortgage, working herself to the bonetwo jobs, no time for anything. No partner, no children. Even her friend hasnt seen her in months.
And me? I wait. Every day, I glance at the telephone, willing it to ring. It never does. I cant even reach hernumber changed, I suppose. She doesnt want to see me. Doesnt want to hear me. Thinks I failed her that day. But Ill be seventy soon. I dont know how many more evenings Ill spend by this window, hoping. Or what I did to drive her so far away.
**Lesson learned:** Some wounds never heal, and silence cuts deeper than words. All we can do is hold on to whats left and pray, even when the answer never comes.
