“Two Years Gone By: My Daughter Hasn’t Called or Sent a Message”: She Doesn’t Want to See Me Anymore

I’ve always admired Mrs. Ella for her vibrant spirit and the way her eyes light up when she talks about the places she’s visited. Her small living room is adorned with souvenirs from around the world, each piece echoing a story of adventure. Despite her cheerful demeanor, there was always a hint of sadness that she carefully masked behind a warm smile.

One rainy afternoon, as we sat by the window watching the droplets race down the glass, Ella, with a more somber tone than usual, began to speak of her daughter, Savannah. “It’s been two years now,” she started, her voice a mixture of resignation and sorrow. “Two years since I’ve heard her voice.”

Savannah and Ella had a falling out that neither of them could mend. It began over trivial misunderstandings, which escalated into stubborn silences, and eventually, complete estrangement. “I remember the last conversation we had,” Ella continued, staring into her tea as if trying to read a forgotten script at the bottom of the cup. “It ended in harsh words that neither of us meant to say. And that was it.”

Ella tried reaching out multiple times. She sent messages on birthdays and holidays, left voicemails that were never returned, and wrote letters that never got replies. With each attempt, her hope of reconciliation dwindled until she accepted the painful reality that Savannah might never want to see her again.

“I think she believes I’m too set in my ways, too critical,” Ella confessed, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched her teacup. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe I was too harsh on her choices, too quick to judge. But I never stopped loving her, not for a second.”

The estrangement took its toll on Ella. The vibrant stories of her travels were fewer, and her laughter had a hollow ring to it. She filled her days with community activities and book clubs, but the joy those things brought was fleeting. The absence of her daughter was a constant ache, an unhealed wound that no amount of time could mend.

As the sky cleared and the rain stopped, I realized that our visits, though filled with stories and laughter, were Ella’s way of coping with her loneliness. She was trying to fill the silence left by Savannah’s absence with conversations about everything but her pain.

Before I left, Ella handed me a small, framed photograph of her and Savannah, taken during happier times. “Keep it,” she said softly, “so you’ll remember that behind every cheerful story, there might be a tale of heartache.”

I walked home that day with the photograph in my hand, a somber reminder of the complex layers of human relationships. Ella, with her nearly seventy years, had seen much of the world, but it was her own front door, behind which she longed most to see a familiar face, that remained resolutely closed.