—How can you *not*? She’s your mother. You wept by her bedside, and now you won’t bury her?— Emily gasped, her chest tight with indignation.
—Dr. Emily Whitaker, the patient in the fourth bed said Mrs. Holloway passed,— the nurse murmured.
Emily set down her pen, stood from the desk, checked her reflection in the wardrobe mirror, tucked a loose strand of hair beneath her cap, and left the office.
The door to the fourth ward was ajar. Emily entered without sound. A hunched young man stood beside the bed where Mrs. Anna Holloway lay. He whispered something, his breath hitching. Emily approached and knew at once—Anna was gone. Eyes shut, lips parted.
She glanced at the other beds. One empty. The other held an elderly woman, who beckoned Emily urgently, as if she’d been waiting. Emily went to her.
—He’s been like that ten minutes. Begging her forgiveness,— the woman hissed, widening her eyes for emphasis.
Emily returned to the body.
—We’ll move her soon. The others are unsettled…— She broke off as the man turned sharply, his face red and wet. —Your mother’s gone. Nothing will change that,— she said softly.
*Strange, a grown man so undone. They must’ve been close.*
—What was she treated for?— he rasped.
—Odd question. Most ask why someone *died.* Come to the office. I’ll explain.— She turned, but he seized her wrist. —Let go! You’re hurting me!— Emily snapped.
—Why did you let her die? She was never ill. She…— He choked, covering his eyes.
Emily wrenched free.
—Just because she spared you the truth doesn’t mean she was well. Or that she expected your help.— Her voice was ice. —She lay here two weeks, and you never came. Now you stand here weeping.
—I didn’t know. I was away. The neighbor told me today,— he muttered, calmer now.
—Come to the office,— Emily repeated, weary. But he didn’t move.
She left to arrange the remains. The son never came. Nurse Louise said he’d walked out. Emily knew grief took strange forms—perhaps he’d return. But two days later, the morgue rang. No one had claimed the body.
—*No one?*— She remembered the weeping man. —I’ll sort it.— She hung up.
*He didn’t collect her? He was so distraught. Did something happen? Or did he drown in grief, lost to time?* She found Anna’s file, dialed the next of kin.
The line crackled. A slurred voice growled:
—Wha’ d’you want?
—I treated your mother. Will you bury her?
—I… can’t…—
—How *can’t* you? Drunk and forgotten? She’s your *mother.* You wept by her bed, and now you’ll leave her?— Emily’s voice shook. —Listen, the morgue keeps bodies seven days free. After that—
—You killed her, and now you call…— The line went dead.
—*Rude!*— Emily spat. *What kind of man drinks himself into forgetting his own mother’s burial?*
She’d seen it all—anger, grief, cruelty. But this gnawed at her.
She thought of her own mother’s funeral…
***
Their relationship had been thorny. A strict single mother, she’d barred Emily from returning past nine, even in sixth form. While friends dyed their hair cobalt or fuchsia, Emily dared not dream of it. Makeup? Unthinkable.
Dresses were battles. Her mother bought *practical* things—durable, sensible. Tears changed nothing.
At sixteen, Emily scrubbed floors at the clinic to buy a dress and heels. Her mother sneered: —*Spent it all on rags, not a penny to me. When will you help?*—
Med school brought fresh scorn: —*I thought you’d finally ease my burdens.*—
At twenty, Emily fled to a flat with a classmate. When she fell pregnant, he married her without fuss. His parents were indifferent. A small registry office affair would do.
Then she miscarried. No need for papers. Still, William stayed. They wed.
When pregnancy came again, she waited. Told him past the danger window. He’d been ill, missing lectures. She rushed home to share the news—and found him in bed with another woman.
She stayed. Where else could she go? Back to her mother, swollen with child? William vanished often. When Oliver was born, he vanished for good.
Her mother-in-law helped. No warmth, but practicality. When Emily returned to work, Oliver started nursery. Life eased.
Then a neighbor mentioned her mother’s illness. Emily rushed to the hospital, begged forgiveness, pleaded to transfer her closer. Her mother refused.
For a year, Emily split herself—work, child, mother. Extra shifts paid for carers. Her mother-in-law stepped in.
One day, her mother didn’t know her. Ranted about an ungrateful daughter who’d abandoned her. When recognition flickered, she’d snap: —*Come to see if I’m dead? Want the house?*—
Emily bit back years of hurt. Useless.
Then, as her mother worsened, Emily and Oliver moved in. In rare lucid moments, they spoke honestly. Both wept. Too late.
One night, Emily woke uneasy. Her mother wasn’t sleeping. Smiling, almost. Emily held her hand till dawn. Until the last breath. No more anger.
***
The Holloway case haunted her. On All Souls’ Day, Emily swapped shifts, visited the graveside. Warm, dry weather. She cleared dead flowers, laid fresh ones. Her mother’s photo stared stern but not unkind.
At the gates, she spotted Anna’s son talking to someone. *Good. He came.* She nodded as she passed.
—Wait,— he called.
She turned.
—You here for someone? I’m… sorry. That night. I was drunk.—
—All Souls’. I visited my mother.—
—Nine days today. I’ve a car—let me drive you.—
The bus stop was packed. She agreed.
—You think me a drunk?— he asked on the road.
—I did.— She watched graves blur past.
His name returned: *Edward.* On Anna’s file.
—I don’t drink. Let me explain.— A pause. —I thought Mum understood me. Then I loved a woman with a child. Mum said: *Her or me.* We split. I never forgave Mum. Walked out.—
—So you left her unburied? Unforgiven?
—*I forgave!*— He slammed the wheel. —She went too fast. I never…—
—You punished her. Now you’ll punish yourself forever. Forgive *yourself.* It helps.—
—You sound like you know.—
—We made peace. Though she forgot me often.—
—Come back with me. Nine days… I can’t be alone.—
—My son’s home from school.—
—Seventh year? He’s grown. Just a while. Mum would’ve wanted it.—
—You said I killed her.—
—I was wrong. Please.—
She went. He drank little, talked much. Their stories mirrored. When she rose to leave, he offered the car.
—No need.—
—I’m sober. Women complain men don’t help, then refuse when we do.— He smirked.
She flushed.
—Emily,— he said, driving her home, —however we fought, our mothers loved us. They brought us here. Let’s use *you* now.—
She smiled. Under different stars, they’d never have met. To find someone who *understood*—rarer than gold.
