Two Years of Silence: My Daughter Won’t Speak to Me Anymore

The kitchen clock ticks louder at night. Maybe it’s just my imagination, or maybe the silence in this house has grown so thick that every sound is magnified. I sit at the table, phone in hand, staring at the screen as if willing it to light up with her name. Two years. Two years since Emily last called me Mom.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when everything broke apart. I remember the sunlight slanting through the blinds, dust motes dancing in the air. Emily stood by the doorway, her backpack slung over one shoulder, her eyes red-rimmed and furious. “You never listen!” she screamed. “You only care about what people think!”

I tried to reach for her, but she flinched away. “Emily, please—”

“No!” She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m done trying to make you proud. I’m done pretending to be someone I’m not.”

The door slammed so hard the picture frames rattled on the wall. That was the last time I saw her face.

I replay that moment every night. I wonder if I should have just let her go to that art school in Chicago instead of pushing her toward business at State. Maybe if I’d listened more and lectured less, she’d still call me Mom instead of Linda.

My husband, Mark, tries to comfort me, but even he’s grown tired of my sorrow. “She’ll come around,” he says, flipping through channels on the TV. “Kids always do.”

But Emily was never like other kids. She was stubborn and brilliant and so heartbreakingly sensitive. When she was little, she’d crawl into my lap after nightmares and whisper secrets into my ear—secrets about dragons and imaginary friends and fears she couldn’t name.

Now, all I have are memories and a phone that never rings.

Last Thanksgiving, I set a place for her anyway. Mark rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything as I laid out her favorite blue plate. The turkey grew cold as I stared at the empty chair, willing her to walk through the door.

After dinner, Mark finally snapped. “You have to let her go, Linda. You’re torturing yourself—and me.”

I wanted to scream at him, to tell him he didn’t understand what it was like to lose your child while she was still alive. But I just gathered up the plates and washed them in silence.

Sometimes I scroll through Emily’s old Instagram posts, searching for clues about her life now. She’s cut her hair short and dyed it blue. She posts pictures of paintings—wild, colorful things that look nothing like the landscapes she used to draw as a kid. There’s a boy in some of the photos, his arm slung around her shoulders, both of them grinning at some inside joke.

I want to comment, to say how proud I am of her talent, but I’m afraid she’ll block me for good if I reach out.

Last week, I ran into Mrs. Carter at the grocery store—Emily’s old art teacher. She smiled kindly when she saw me hovering by the apples.

“Have you heard from Emily?” she asked gently.

I shook my head, blinking back tears.

She patted my arm. “She’s a wonderful girl. She just needs time.”

But how much time? How many birthdays and Christmases and ordinary Tuesdays have to pass before she forgives me?

I keep thinking about that day two years ago—the way her voice cracked when she said, “You only care about what people think.” Maybe she was right. Maybe I cared too much about appearances—about what the neighbors would say if my daughter became an artist instead of an accountant.

I remember my own mother’s voice: “Don’t embarrass the family.” It echoes in my mind every time I think about Emily’s choices.

But what does it matter now? The neighbors don’t call anymore; they cross the street when they see me coming. Maybe they’re tired of my sad eyes and forced smiles.

Sometimes at night, I write letters to Emily that I never send:

Dear Emily,
I’m sorry for not listening. I’m sorry for trying to shape you into someone you’re not. I miss you every day.
Love,
Mom

I tuck them into a shoebox under my bed, hoping that one day she’ll want to read them.

Mark says I should move on—that we still have each other, that life goes on whether Emily is here or not. But he doesn’t see how empty this house feels without her laughter echoing down the hallway.

Last night, I dreamed she came home. She stood in the doorway, older and stronger but still my little girl. She smiled at me and said, “It’s okay, Mom. I forgive you.” When I woke up, my pillow was wet with tears.

I don’t know if Emily will ever come back. Maybe she’s happier without me—free to be herself without my expectations weighing her down.

But every day, I sit at this kitchen table and wait for a message that never comes.

If you’re reading this and you’re a parent—tell your kids you love them for who they are, not who you want them to be. And if you’re a daughter like Emily… please call your mom.

Do we ever really know when we’ve crossed a line we can’t uncross? Or is there always hope for forgiveness if we’re brave enough to ask for it?