Two Years of Silence: A Mother’s Long Wait for Her Daughter

I stared at my phone, the glow from the screen painting deep shadows under my eyes. My thumb hovered over Emily’s name, still saved in my contacts after all this time, though I knew the number by heart. Two years. Two years of silence so thick it choked me even now, as I sat alone at my kitchen table, a mug of cold chamomile tea cradled in my shaking hands.

“Are you going to try again today, Maggie?” Linda’s voice drifted in through the open window. I could hear the gentle scrape of her chair as she set up her tiny garden on the balcony next to mine, her hands forever busy with something green and growing. At sixty-eight, Linda had a way of making loneliness look dignified, even inviting. Me, I just looked tired.

“I don’t know,” I called back, my voice catching. “What’s the point? She doesn’t want to talk.”

Linda’s head popped into view, her curly gray hair escaping its bun. “She’s your daughter. One day, she’ll remember that.”

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that the angry words Emily hurled at me before she slammed the door two years ago were just that—words. That time could smooth over the jagged edges of our last conversation. But every day that passed, the silence felt heavier, like quicksand pulling me under.

It started, as these things often do, with something small. Emily’s announcement that she was moving to Seattle—2,800 miles away from my little apartment in Hartford, Connecticut. She said it was for her job, but I knew better. It was freedom she wanted. Freedom from my questions, my hovering, my need to know every detail of her life. I’d tried to explain, to keep her close after her father died, but she saw it as control. She saw everything as control.

The last time she called, we argued about her new boyfriend, Mark. I didn’t trust him—and I said so. I told her I didn’t like the way he talked about her job, how he made jokes at her expense. She called me controlling. I called her naïve. Then she hung up. And that was it.

The days stretched into weeks. I sent birthday cards, texts, emails. Sometimes I’d write long letters, pouring out apologies and memories, folding them into the envelopes with trembling hands. They all came back, marked “Return to Sender.” Emily had moved and hadn’t left a forwarding address.

Linda was the only one who understood. Her son lived in California, and though he called sometimes, he rarely visited. We became each other’s family, sharing dinners and stories, the ache of absence settling between us like an old, familiar blanket.

One rainy afternoon, Linda knocked on my door, holding a plate of lemon bars. “You need to get out of this apartment, Maggie. Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

I hesitated. I’d gotten used to my routines—morning coffee, a crossword, a walk to the grocery store, a call to Emily that always went unanswered. But Linda was persistent. She looped her arm through mine and led me down the hall, out into the soft drizzle that turned the city’s edges into silver mist.

We walked in silence for a while, our shoes splashing through puddles. “You know,” Linda said finally, “my sister didn’t talk to me for ten years. Not a word. She was angry about something that happened when we were kids. One day, she just showed up at my door. Sometimes, you just have to wait.”

I nodded, blinking back tears. “But what if she never comes back? What if she never forgives me?”

Linda squeezed my hand. “Then you keep living. You keep loving her, even if she never knows it. That’s what being a mother means.”

That night, I sat at my kitchen table and wrote another letter. This time, I didn’t beg for forgiveness. I just told Emily about my day, about the rain, about Linda’s lemon bars and the way the light looked as the sun set over the city. I slipped a photo of the two of us from her high school graduation into the envelope. I didn’t have her new address, but I sent it to her old one anyway. Maybe, somehow, it would find its way to her.

The days blurred together. I planted flowers on my balcony, learned to bake sourdough, joined a book club. I missed Emily every moment. I missed her laughter, the way she used to tease me about my old-fashioned shoes, the way she’d snuggle next to me on the couch, head on my shoulder, her hair smelling like apples.

My seventieth birthday crept closer. Linda insisted on throwing me a party—a small one, just a few neighbors and a chocolate cake. As we sat around my kitchen table, laughter filling the room, I caught myself glancing at the door, hoping for a miracle.

The party wound down. Linda handed me a glass of wine and sat beside me as I opened the last of the cards. My hands trembled as I recognized the handwriting—sharp, slanted, unmistakably Emily’s. I tore it open, breath catching in my chest.

“Mom,

I don’t know if you’ll get this, but I saw your letter. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long. I’m still angry, but I miss you. I hope you’re okay. Maybe we can talk soon.

Love, Emily.”

I pressed the card to my heart and wept. Relief, regret, gratitude, hope—all tangled together in a knot that refused to untangle. Linda squeezed my shoulder, her eyes shining with happy tears.

“See?” she whispered. “Sometimes, life surprises us.”

I wanted to believe her, to trust in this fragile new beginning. But I’d learned that love doesn’t always come with guarantees. Still, as I looked out at the city lights, the pain in my chest eased, just a little.

What is a mother supposed to do with all this love, when there’s nowhere for it to go? And if forgiveness is possible, do we ever truly deserve it? I wonder—how many of us are waiting for someone to come home?