“You can’t? She was your mother! You cried at her bedside, and now you won’t even bury her?” Emily gasped, her voice tight with indignation.
“Dr. Wilson, the patient in room four said Mrs. Thompson passed away.”
Emily set down her pen, rose from her desk, checked her reflection in the wardrobe mirror, tucked a stray strand of hair under her nursing cap, and left the office.
The door to room four was slightly ajar. Emily stepped inside quietly. A hunched young man stood by Mrs. Thompson’s bed, whispering something and sighing heavily. Emily approached and knew instantly—Anna was gone. Her eyes closed, lips parted.
She glanced at the other beds. One was empty; on the other, an elderly woman caught Emily’s eye and beckoned her over as if she’d been waiting. Emily obliged.
“He’s been standing there for ten minutes, begging forgiveness,” the woman whispered, widening her eyes for emphasis.
Emily returned to the bed. “We need to move her. The other patients are anxious—” She stopped when the man abruptly turned to face her, his tear-streaked cheeks flushed. “Your mother’s passed. There’s nothing more to be done,” she said softly.
*Goodness, a grown man grieving like this. They must’ve been close.*
Suddenly, he rasped, “What were you treating her for?”
“A strange question. Most ask *how* someone died. Come to my office. I’ll explain.” She turned toward the door, but he grabbed her wrist. “Let go—you’re hurting me!” Emily snapped.
“Why’d you let her die? She was never ill. She—” He choked, covering his eyes with his free hand.
Emily yanked her arm away. “Just because she never complained to *you* doesn’t mean she was fine. Maybe she spared you. Or didn’t expect your help.” Her tone was merciless. “She was here two weeks, and you never once visited. Now you stand here weeping?”
“I didn’t know. I was away for work. A neighbor told me today,” he muttered, calmer now.
“Come to my office,” Emily repeated wearily, but he didn’t move.
She left to make arrangements. But the son never came. Nurse Sarah said he’d left. Emily assumed grief had delayed him, but two days later, the morgue called—no one had claimed the body.
“No one? But he was so upset. I’ll sort it,” she said, hanging up.
*How could he abandon her? Drunk, maybe? Or lost in grief?* She found Mrs. Thompson’s file, dialed the next of kin’s number.
After endless rings, a slurred voice answered: “Whaddya want?”
“Your mother’s physician. Are you arranging the funeral?”
“I… can’t,” he mumbled.
“You *can’t*? Are you drunk? She’s your *mother*! You wept at her bedside, and now—” Emily’s voice caught. “Listen, the morgue only keeps bodies seven days without charge. After that—”
“You killed her, and now you’re calling—” A crash, then the dial tone.
“Useless drunk,” Emily muttered. To forget your own mother’s funeral—how low could one sink?
She’d seen all sorts in her career—rudeness, ingratitude—but this stung. *He’ll sober up and come*, she told herself. *I’ll remind him tomorrow.*
But the next day, chaos swallowed her time. No call from the morgue meant he’d finally claimed her. Yet the incident gnawed at her.
It reminded her of burying her own mum…
***
Their relationship had always been strained. A single mother, Mum was strict—even in sixth form, Emily had a 9 p.m. 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” clothes. Tears changed nothing.
One summer, Emily worked as a hospital cleaner to buy a dress and shoes. But Mum scolded her for spending every penny on herself: “I thought you’d *help* when you earned! How long must I feed you?”
Life felt unbearable. She dreamed of escape. In her second year at uni, she left despite Mum’s screams, moving in with a classmate, James.
When she got pregnant, he didn’t refuse to marry her. His parents were indifferent. They planned a quiet registry-office wedding—but then she miscarried. No need for vows anymore. Still, James insisted. They married.
Pregnant again in final year, she waited to tell him until the risk passed. But James caught a cold, skipped lectures. Rushing home to share the news, she found him in bed with another woman.
She stayed only because she had nowhere else. Returning to Mum, pregnant, was unthinkable. James began staying out nights. When Oliver was born, he vanished.
Those bleak years—she couldn’t bear to dwell on them. James’s mother helped, though warmth was scarce. Slowly, life stabilized. Emily returned to work; Oliver started nursery. Her mother-in-law babysat during night shifts.
One day, a neighbor mentioned Mum was seriously ill. Emily rushed to her, apologizing for leaving, begging her to transfer to her hospital. Mum refused.
Now Emily trekked daily across London after shifts, often late fetching Oliver. Exhaustion and resentment piled up.
Even after discharge, Mum barred her and Oliver from moving in: “He’ll make noise. I need peace.”
A year blurred by—work, Mum, home. Extra shifts paid for Mum’s carer, while her mother-in-law stepped in.
Then Mum didn’t recognize her. Ranted about a “thankless daughter” who’d abandoned her.
Each word was acid. When recognition flickered back, Mum would snap: “Here to check if I’m dead? Want my flat? Forget it.”
Emily bit back her own rage—what was the point? Tomorrow, Mum would forget again.
Only when Mum became bedridden did Emily and Oliver move in. In rare lucid moments, they finally talked—tears, apologies.
Too little, too late.
One night, Emily woke uneasy. Mum was awake—smiling, almost. She held her hand till dawn, until the last breath. No more grudges…
***
The son’s neglect made Emily rethink her own past. On Mothering Sunday, she swapped shifts and visited the cemetery. Warm, dry weather. She cleared wilted flowers, laid fresh ones. The photo on the headstone showed Mum stern but not unkind.
At the gates, she spotted Mrs. Thompson’s son talking to someone. *Good, he came.* Passing him, she nodded.
“Wait.” He called after her.
She turned.
“You here for someone too? Sorry about… what I said drunk.”
“Mothering Sunday. Time to visit parents. I came for Mum,” Emily said.
“Nine days since she… I’ve got my car. Let me drive you.”
The bus stop was packed. The thought of a stifling ride made her agree.
“You think I’m a drunk?” he asked, merging into traffic.
“I did,” Emily admitted, watching graves fade behind them.
She remembered his name now—Anthony. It was on the file.
“I don’t drink. Let me explain.” He hesitated. “Mum was my best friend. But when I fell for a single mum, she gave an ultimatum: ‘Her or me.’ We split. I never forgave Mum. Left and never spoke to her… till I heard she was in hospital. You know the rest.”
“So you delayed the funeral? To punish her?”
“I *forgave* her!” Anthony hit the wheel. “I just didn’t get to *say* it—”
“You wanted her to suffer, but you’re the one hurting. Forgive yourself. It’ll ease.”
“You sound like you *know*,” he said, glancing at her.
“Mum and I had our troubles. We made peace, though she forgot me after.”
“Come to mine. Nine days… Hard being alone,” he said hopefully.
“I can’t. My son’s coming home—”
“Young?”
“Year Eight.”
“He’s big. Just for a bit. Mum’d have liked you,” he pressed.
“You *hate* me—your words.”
“Don’t. I apologized. Please.”
No excuse left, she went. Anthony barely drank, sharing his story. Their parallels stunned her. When she rose to leave, he offered to drive her.
“No, I’ll manage.”
“Hardly touched a drop. Women complain men don’t help, then refuse when offered,” he teased, studying her.
She flushed under his gaze.
“We both resented our mums,” he said as they neared her place, “but they loved us. And they brought us together. Let’s drop the formalities—call me Tony.”
Emily smiled. Under different circumstances, they’d never have met. Finding someone who *understood*—that was rare.
