Two Years of Silence: She Cut Me Out as I Approach Seventy
Two years had slipped by without a word. My daughter hadnt so much as sent a letter or a call. Shed wiped me from her world. And now, here I stand, nearing seventy
Everyone in the village knows my neighbour, Margaret Wilkins. At sixty-eight, she lives alone, always gracious, always smiling. I sometimes drop by with a tin of biscuits or a slice of cakejust being friendly. She enjoys reminiscing about holidays with her late husband, though she seldom mentions family. Then, one evening before Christmas, when I brought over a batch of mince pies, she surprised me with a story that left me uneasy.
That night, Margaret wasnt her usual self. Normally bright and chatty, she sat in silence, lost in thought. I brewed tea, laid out the treats, and waited. Finally, she took a shaky breath.
Its been two years Not a letter, not a call. I tried ringingher number doesnt work anymore. I dont even know where she lives now.
Her voice wavered before the words poured out.
We were happy once. Edward and I married young but waited before having childrenwe wanted time for ourselves. His work took us across England, but we adored our home, a cosy three-bedroom in London. He built much of it himselfhis pride and joy.
When our daughter, Eleanor, was born, Edward doted on her. He carried her everywhere, read her stories, cherished every moment with her. Watching them, I felt blessed. But ten years ago, Edward passed. A long illness drained our savings, leaving only silencean emptiness where part of my heart once was.
After her fathers death, Eleanor grew distant. She moved into a rented flat, eager for independence. I didnt interfereshe was an adult, after all. She visited occasionally, and things seemed normal. Then, two years ago, she announced she was buying her own place with a mortgage.
I sighed and explained I couldnt helpwhat little wed saved had gone on Edwards care. My pension barely covers the bills and medicine. Then she suggested selling the house. We could get you a small flat outside the city, she said, and the rest could go toward my deposit.
I couldnt bring myself to agree. It wasnt about the moneyit was the memories. Every corner of this house held Edwards touch. How could I let it go? She shouted 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 just wanted her to come back someday and remember us But she wasnt listening.
She stormed out that day. Not a word sinceno calls, no visits, not even at Christmas. Later, a friend mentioned shed taken the mortgage, working herself to exhaustiontwo jobs, no time for love or family. Even her friend hasnt seen her in months.
As for me? I wait. Every day, I glance at the phone, hoping it might ring. It never does. I cant even reach herher numbers gone. 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 evenings Ill spend by this window, wondering. Or what I did to drive her away
Sometimes, love means holding onbut sometimes, it means letting go, even when it breaks your heart.
