Two years have slipped by without a word from my daughter. She erased me from her life, and soon Ill be seventy
Two whole years. Not a single letter, not a whisper. She wiped me away like chalk from a slate. And before long, Ill turn seventy.
In our little corner of Manchester, everyone knows my neighbour, Evelyn Hartwell. Sixty-eight, living alone. Every now and then, I pop round with a tin of shortbread or a Victoria spongejust being neighbourly. Shes kind, elegant, always with a smile, fond of recounting her travels with her late husband. But she hardly ever speaks of family. Then, just before Christmas, as I brought over my usual offering of mince pies, she suddenly opened up. That night, I heard a story that still freezes my blood.
When I stepped inside, Evelyn wasnt her usual self. Normally bright and lively, she sat motionless that evening, staring blankly at the wall. I didnt pryjust brewed the tea, set out the biscuits, and sat quietly beside her. She stayed silent for a long while, wrestling with something unseen. Then, all at once, it spilled out.
«Two years Not one call. No card, no text. I tried ringing, but her number doesnt exist anymore. I dont even know where she lives now»
She paused, as if decades flickered before her eyes. Then, like a dam breaking, Evelyn began to speak.
«We were a happy family. Married young, George and I, but we waited to have childrenwanted to live for ourselves first. His job took us all over. We were partners, always laughing, and we adored our home, the one wed made together. He built it with his own handsa spacious terrace house in the heart of Manchester. His lifes dream»
When our daughter, Charlotte, was born, George seemed reborn. He cradled her, read her fairy tales, spent every free moment with her. Id watch them and think myself the luckiest woman alive. But ten years ago, George left us. He fought the illness for so long, drained our savings trying to stay. Then silence. Emptiness. Like someone had torn a piece of my heart clean out.
After her fathers death, Charlotte drifted away. Took a flat, wanted to live alone. I didnt argueshe was grown, her life to build. She visited, we talked, everything seemed normal. Then, two years ago, she came and told me she wanted a mortgage for her own place.
I sighed and explained I couldnt help. Our savings, the ones George and I had scraped together, were nearly goneall spent on his treatment. My pension barely covered bills and my own pills. Then she suggested selling the house. «We could get you a little flat on the outskirts, and the rest would cover my deposit.»
I couldnt do it. It wasnt about moneyit was memory. These walls, every cornerGeorge had shaped them himself. All my happiness, my whole life, was here. 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 selfish. I tried to tell her I just hoped, one day, shed come back here and remember us But she wouldnt listen.
That day, she slammed the door. Since thennothing. No call, no visit, not even at Christmas. Later, a mutual friend told me shed gotten her loan after all, working herself to the bone nowtwo jobs, no rest. No family, no children. Even her friend hasnt seen her in months.
And me I wait. Every day, I watch the phone, willing it to ring. But it doesnt. I cant even call hershes changed her number. She must think I betrayed her that day. But soon, Ill be seventy. I dont know how much time I have left in this house, how many evenings Ill spend at the window, hoping. And I still dont understand how I could have hurt her so badly
