**Diary Entry, 15th April**
*— How can you refuse? She’s your own mother. You wept at her bedside, and now you won’t bury her?* Charlotte gasped, her chest tight with indignation.
*— Dr. Charlotte Whittaker, the patient in Bed Four said Mrs. Hawthorne passed away.*
Charlotte set down her pen, rose from her desk, and caught her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Tucking a stray strand of hair under her cap, she left the office.
The door to the fourth ward was ajar. She slipped inside silently. At Mrs. Eleanor Hawthorne’s bed stood a stooped young man, murmuring something between heavy sighs. When Charlotte approached, she saw the truth—Mrs. Hawthorne lay motionless, eyes shut, lips slightly parted.
Her gaze flicked to the neighbouring beds. One empty; the other occupied by an elderly woman who beckoned urgently, as if she’d been waiting. Charlotte obliged.
*— He’s been standing there ten minutes. Apologising over and over. Said he didn’t want anyone called—just wanted to say goodbye,* the woman whispered, eyes wide for emphasis.
Charlotte turned back to the body. *— She needs to be moved. The other patients are distressed—*
She broke off as the man spun to face her, cheeks streaked with tears. *— Your mother is gone. Nothing will change that,* she said softly.
*He’s a grown man, mourning like this. They must’ve been close,* she thought, pity stirring.
*— What were you treating her for?* he rasped.
*— Odd question. Most ask how someone died. Let’s talk in my office.* She turned, but he seized her wrist. *— Let go! You’re hurting me!*
*— Why did you let her die? She was never ill. She—* His voice cracked, and he pressed a hand over his eyes.
Charlotte wrenched free. *— Just because she spared you her complaints doesn’t mean she was well. Or that she expected your help.* Her voice turned sharp. *— She was here two weeks, and you didn’t visit once. Now you stand here weeping.*
*— I didn’t know. I was away. A neighbour told me today.*
*— Come to my office,* she repeated wearily, but he stayed rooted.
She left to arrange the necessary, but Mrs. Hawthorne’s son never appeared. Nurse Emily said he’d gone. Charlotte assumed grief had overwhelmed him—he’d return. But two days later, the morgue rang. *— No one’s collected the body. What should we do?*
*— No one?* She recalled the weeping man. *— I’ll handle it.*
Had he really abandoned her? Drunk himself into oblivion? She found Mrs. Hawthorne’s file and dialled the next of kin.
The phone rang endlessly. Just as she gave up, a slurred voice answered. *— Whaddya want?*
*— I treated your mother. Will you be burying her?*
*— I… can’t—*
*— You can’t? Drunk and forgotten already? She’s your mother! You wept at her bedside!* Her breath caught. *— The morgue keeps bodies seven days free of charge. After that—*
*— You killed her, and now you call—* The line went dead.
*— Rude drunk,* she muttered. *What kind of man forgets to bury his own mother?*
She’d dealt with worse in her career—ingratitude, harsh words. Nothing new. Still, the case nagged at her.
It made her think of her own mum.
—
Their relationship had always been strained. A single mother, strict to the bone. Even in sixth form, Charlotte had a nine o’clock curfew. While friends dyed their hair blue or pink, she didn’t dare. Makeup? Out of the question.
Begging for a dress she liked was futile. Mum bought *practical* things. Tears changed nothing.
One summer, Charlotte worked as a hospital cleaner to buy a dress and shoes. Her excitement died when Mum scolded, *— Not a penny for me? Spending it all on rags?*
*— I hoped you’d ease my burdens once you earned. How long must I feed you, a grown girl?* she’d snapped when Charlotte announced her medical school acceptance.
Charlotte dreamt of escape. By second year, she left—ignoring Mum’s shouts—moving in with a classmate, Oliver.
He married her when she fell pregnant. His parents didn’t fuss. A quiet registry office affair would’ve sufficed—but she miscarried. No need for papers, yet Oliver stayed. They married anyway.
When she conceived again—final year—she waited to tell him until the danger passed. She rushed home one day, eager to share the news, and found him in bed with another woman.
She stayed only because she had nowhere else. Returning to Mum, pregnant, was unthinkable. Oliver vanished often; when baby Thomas arrived, he vanished for good.
Even now, she shied from those memories. Oliver’s mother helped, though warmth was scarce. In time, things steadied. Charlotte worked nights; Thomas started nursery. Her mother-in-law babysat when needed.
Then she bumped into a neighbour. *— Your mum’s seriously ill.*
Charlotte visited, begged forgiveness for leaving, urged Mum to transfer to her hospital. Mum refused.
So, she trekked daily across London after shifts, often late collecting Thomas. Resentment festered. Even discharged, Mum barred them from moving in. *— The boy’s too loud. I need quiet.*
A year passed, torn between home, Mum, and work. Extra shifts paid for carers. Again, her mother-in-law stepped in.
Then Mum forgot her. *— My thankless daughter abandoned me,* she raved to this *stranger*. Recognising Charlotte later, she’d snap, *— Come to see if I’m dead yet? After my flat?*
Charlotte swallowed her retorts—pointless. Tomorrow, Mum wouldn’t know her again.
Only when Mum worsened did she and Thomas move in. In rare lucid moments, they spoke honestly—tears, apologies. Too late to mend things, but the air cleared.
One night, Charlotte woke uneasy. Mum was awake—smiling, almost. She held her hand till dawn, till the last breath. No more bitterness.
—
The son’s neglect made Charlotte reassess her own past. On Mothering Sunday, she swapped shifts and visited the cemetery. Warm, dry weather. She cleared dead flowers, laid fresh ones. The photo on the headstone showed Mum stern but not unkind.
Leaving, she spotted Mrs. Hawthorne’s son talking to someone. *Good—he came,* she thought. Nodding as she passed, he called, *— Wait.*
She turned.
*— You lost someone too? I’m sorry for what I said drunk…*
*— It’s Mothering Sunday. I visited my mum,* she said.
*— Nine days since… I’ve my car. Let me drive you.*
The bus stop was packed. She imagined the stifling ride and agreed.
*— You think I’m a drunk?* he asked as they pulled away.
*— I did,* she admitted, watching graves fade through the window. Suddenly, she remembered his name—Edward. It was in the file.
*— I don’t drink. Let me explain.* A pause. *— Mum was my best friend. But when I fell for a woman with a child, she forbade the marriage. “Her or me.” We split. I left, angry for years.* Another pause. *— I never married. By the time I heard she was ill… You know the rest.*
*— So you delayed the funeral? Unforgiven?*
*— I forgave her!* He smacked the wheel. *— She went too fast. I never said—*
*— You meant to punish her, but punished yourself. Now you’ll regret forever not saying you loved her. Forgive yourself—it helps.*
*— Like you read my mind,* he muttered.
*— My mum and I… it was complicated. We reconciled, though she forgot me in the end.*
*— Come back with me. Nine days… It’s hard alone.*
*— My son’s due home—*
*— Young?*
*— Year Seven.*
*— He’s big. Just a short while. Mum would’ve liked you,* he pressed.
*— You accused me of killing her.*
*— I apologised. Please.*
She couldn’t refuse. Over tea, he barely touched his drink, sharing his story. Their lives mirrored oddly. When she rose to leave, he offered a lift.
*— No, I’ll manage.*
*— I’m sober. You women complain men don’t help, then refuse when offered,* he teased, studying her.
She flushed under his gaze.
*— Charlotte, however we resented our mothers, they loved us. And they brought us together. Let’s drop the formalities, eh?*
She smiled. They’d never have met otherwise. Finding someone who *understandsAs the car slowed outside her house, Charlotte realized that sometimes, healing begins with a stranger’s shared sorrow and the quiet understanding that love, even when flawed, leaves its mark forever.
