“Don’t you dare say that? She was your mother! You wept at her bedside, and now you won’t even bury her?”—Emily’s voice caught in her throat, thick with indignation.
“Emily Stewart, the patient in Ward Four said Mrs. Whitmore has passed,” the nurse murmured.
Emily set down her pen, rose from the desk, and glanced at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. She tucked a loose strand of blonde hair beneath her nurse’s cap and left the staff room.
The door to Ward Four stood ajar. Emily slipped inside without a sound. At the bedside of Margaret Whitmore, a hunched young man stood whispering, his breath ragged. Emily approached and knew at once—Margaret was gone, her eyes shut, lips slightly parted.
She glanced at the neighboring beds. One empty. The other held an elderly woman, who beckoned urgently, as though she’d been waiting. Emily moved closer.
“He’s been like that for ten minutes,” the woman whispered, widening her eyes for emphasis. “Begging her forgiveness. Said he didn’t want anyone called—just wanted to say goodbye.”
Emily returned to Margaret’s side. “We need to take her out of the ward. The other patients are unsettled—” She broke off as the man whipped around, his face blotched with tears.
“Your mother is gone,” Emily said softly.
Strange, she thought. A grown man, grieving so hard. They must have been close.
“Why was she even here?” he rasped.
“Odd question. Most ask how someone died. Come to the staff room; I’ll explain.” She turned, but he seized her wrist.
“Let go! You’re hurting me!” Emily snapped.
“You let her die. She was never ill. She—” His voice cracked, and he pressed a hand over his eyes.
Emily wrenched free. “Just because she didn’t complain doesn’t mean she was well. Maybe she spared you. Or knew you’d be no help.” The words were cruel, but she couldn’t stop them. “Two weeks in hospital, and you never once visited. Now you stand here weeping.”
“I didn’t know. I was away. A neighbor told me today,” he said, calmer now.
“Come with me,” Emily repeated wearily. But he didn’t move.
She left to arrange the necessary. Later, the nurse—Sophie—told her he’d gone. Emily supposed grief took people oddly. He’d return.
But two days later, the morgue called. No one had collected the body.
“What do you mean? He was sobbing over her!” Emily’s mind raced. Had something happened? Had he drunk himself into oblivion? She dug out Margaret’s file, dialed the contact number.
Long rings. Just as she nearly hung up, a slurred voice answered.
“Wha’ d’you want?”
“Your mother’s doctor. Are you planning to bury her?”
“I… can’t,” the voice mumbled.
“Don’t give me that! Drunk and forgetting your own mother? She has seven days in the morgue before you’ll need to—”
“You killed her, and now you call—” The line crackled, then died.
“Rude drunk!” Emily seethed. What kind of man neglected his mother’s funeral?
She’d seen all sorts in her career—abuse, ingratitude, grief turned to rage. This was nothing new. He’d sober up and come. She’d call again tomorrow.
But the next day, she forgot. No word from the morgue—he must have collected her. Still, the incident gnawed at her.
She remembered burying her own mother…
***
Their relationship had never been easy. Her mother, a single parent, ruled with iron discipline. Even in sixth form, Emily had a nine o’clock curfew. While friends dyed their hair turquoise or cherry, she dared not even think of it. Makeup? Out of the question.
Convincing her mother to buy a dress she liked was a battle. Her mother favoured practicality—clothes to last. Tears and tantrums changed nothing.
One summer, Emily worked as a hospital orderly to buy herself a dress and shoes. But the joy soured when her mother scolded, “Not a penny for me? Spent it all on rubbish!”
“You’ll earn soon. Must I feed you forever?” her mother snapped when Emily announced her nursing studies.
Life felt unbearable. Emily longed to escape. In her second year, she fled—ignoring her mother’s screams and insults. Moved into a flat with a classmate, Oliver.
When she got pregnant, he didn’t refuse to marry. His parents took it calmly. No grand wedding—just a registry office and a quiet meal. But she miscarried. The marriage still happened.
When she fell pregnant again in her final year, she waited to tell him, terrified. By the time she did, Oliver caught a cold and skipped lectures. Rushing home with her news, she found him in bed with another woman.
She stayed—nowhere else to go. Not back to her mother, not pregnant. Oliver vanished often. When Ethan was born, he vanished for good.
She refused to dwell on the hardest years. Her mother-in-law helped, though warmth was scarce. Eventually, work and nursery eased the strain. Her mother-in-law babysat during night shifts.
Then, by chance, she ran into an old neighbor. “Your mother’s seriously ill,” the woman said. Emily rushed to her, begged forgiveness, pleaded for her to transfer to her hospital. Her mother refused.
So Emily trekked daily after work across London, always late to collect Ethan. Exhaustion and resentment piled up.
Even discharged, her mother barred Emily and Ethan from moving in. “Too noisy,” she said. “I need peace.”
A year passed in this limbo—work, Ethan, her mother. Extra shifts paid for a carer. Her mother-in-law stepped in again.
Then, one day, her mother didn’t recognize her. Ranted about her “ungrateful daughter,” how she’d done so much, received nothing…
It cut deep. When lucid, her mother shooed her away: “Come to see if I’m dead yet? After my flat?” Emily bit back years of hurt—pointless now.
Only when her mother worsened did Emily and Ethan move in. In rare clear moments, they talked properly for the first time. Both wept, apologizing.
Too late. Nothing undone could be fixed. Even when her mother forgot her again, peace settled between them.
One night, Emily woke uneasy. Found her mother awake, almost smiling. She held her hand till dawn, till the last breath. No more grudges…
***
The son of her late patient forced Emily to re-examine things. On All Souls’ Day, she swapped shifts, visiting the graveside under a dry, warm sky. She cleared withered flowers, laid fresh ones. The headstone’s photo showed her mother stern, but not unkind.
At the cemetery gates, she spotted the son—Daniel Whitmore—talking to someone. “Good, he’s come,” she thought. Passing him, she nodded.
“Wait,” he called.
She turned.
“You here for someone?” He sounded sober now. “I’m… sorry about that call. I was drunk.”
“All Souls’. I visited my mother,” Emily said.
“Nine days today… I’ve my car. Let me drive you.”
The bus stop was packed. The thought of a stifling ride decided her.
“You think I’m a drunk?” he asked as they pulled onto the road.
“I did,” she admitted, watching graves fade behind them.
She recalled his name—Daniel. It was on Margaret’s file.
“I don’t drink. Let me explain.” He hesitated. “I thought Mum understood me. Then I fell for a woman with a child. Mum said: ‘Her or me.’ We split. I never forgave her. Stormed out.”
“Years passed. Then I heard she was in hospital… You know the rest.”
“So you delayed the funeral? Still unforgiving?”
“I forgave her!” he burst out. “I just… never got to say it.” He thumped the wheel.
“You wanted to punish her, but punished yourself instead. Now you’ll always regret it. Forgive yourself—it helps.”
“You sound like you’ve been inside my head,” he said, glancing at her.
“We had a difficult relationship too. Difference is, we made peace—though she stopped knowing me.”
“Come back with me,” he said suddenly. “Nine days… Hard being alone.”
“I can’t. My son’s coming home—”
“Little?”
“Year Seven.”
“Practically grown. Just for a bit. Mum’d have liked you,” he pressed.
“You said I killed her.”
“I apologized. Please.”
She couldn’t refuse. Over tea, he barely touched liquor, talking about his life. Their stories overlapped strangely. As she prepared to leave, he insisted on driving her.
“No, I’ll manage,” she said.
“I’ve had one sip. Women complain men don’t help—then refuse when they offer,” he teased, watching her closely.
She flushed”I think our mothers would be glad we found each other,” Daniel said softly, and Emily nodded, feeling for the first time in years that the weight of the past had finally begun to lift.
