“How can you not? She was your mother. You wept by her bedside, and now you won’t bury her?”—Emily choked on her indignation.
“Dr. Emily Whitmore, the patient in the fourth ward said Mrs. Milford passed away.”
Emily set down her pen, rose from her desk, smoothed a stray strand of hair under her nurse’s cap in the wardrobe mirror, and stepped out of the staff room.
The door to Ward Four was slightly ajar. She entered quietly. A hunched young man stood by the bed of Agnes Milford, murmuring under his breath between heavy sighs. Emily approached and knew at once—Agnes was gone. Her eyes were closed, mouth slack.
She glanced at the other beds. One was empty; in the other, an elderly woman caught her eye with an eager wave, as if she’d been waiting. Emily walked over.
“He’s been standing like that for ten minutes,” the woman whispered, eyes wide for emphasis. “Begging forgiveness. Said he didn’t want anyone called—just wanted to say goodbye.”
Emily returned to the deceased. “We need to move her. The other patients are unsettled—” She stopped as the man whirled around, his face red from crying. “Your mother is gone. There’s nothing more to be done,” she said softly.
*He’s a grown man, grieving like this. They must have been close.*
“Why was she being treated?” he rasped suddenly.
“Odd question. Most ask *how* someone died. Come to the office, I’ll explain.” She turned, but he seized her wrist. “Let go—you’re hurting me!” Emily raised her voice.
“Then why did you let her die? She was never ill. She—” His voice cracked, hand covering his eyes.
Emily yanked free. “Just because she didn’t complain doesn’t mean she was well. Or that she wanted to spare you. Or expected your help.” The words were merciless. “She was here two weeks, and you never visited. Now you stand here crying.”
“I didn’t know. I was away on business. The neighbor told me today,” he said, calmer now.
“Come to the office,” Emily repeated wearily, but he didn’t move.
She left to arrange things. But Agnes’s son never came. Nurse Lucy said he’d left. Emily assumed he’d return—grief affects people differently. But two days later, the morgue called. No one had claimed the body.
“What do you mean, no one? He was weeping over her!” Emily hung up, baffled. *Did he drink himself into oblivion?* She found Agnes’s file, dialed the next of kin.
The line rang endlessly. Just as she gave up, a slurred voice answered.
“What d’you want?”
“I was your mother’s doctor. Are you planning her funeral?”
“I… can’t.”
“Can’t? You’re drunk and forgot? She was your *mother*. You wept by her side—now you won’t bury her?” Emily’s voice shook. “Listen—the morgue keeps bodies seven days free. After that—”
“You killed my mum, and now you call—” The line went dead.
“Rude drunk,” Emily muttered. “What kind of man forgets to bury his own mother?”
She’d seen all kinds in her career—rudeness, grief’s sharp edges. This shouldn’t faze her. *He’ll sober up and come,* she told herself. *I’ll call tomorrow.*
But the next day was chaotic, and she forgot. No calls from the morgue meant he’d finally come. Yet the case lingered in her mind.
It made her think of her own mother…
***
Their relationship had always been strained. A single mother, strict to the bone. Even in sixth form, Emily had a nine PM curfew. While friends dyed their hair blue or pink, she didn’t dare. Makeup? Unthinkable.
Begging for a dress she liked was futile—Mum bought “sensible” clothes. Tears changed nothing.
That summer, Emily worked as a hospital aide to buy a dress and heels. But Mum scolded her: “Not a penny shared. Spent it all on vanity.”
“When you earn, will you ever help me?” Mum had snapped when Emily got into med school. “Must I feed you forever?”
Life felt suffocating. By her second year, Emily fled to a flat with a classmate.
When she got pregnant, he married her—no fuss. His parents were calm. A quiet registry wedding was planned. Then she miscarried. No need for papers. Still, Tom stayed. They married.
On her final year, she waited to tell him about the second pregnancy—until the “safe” period passed. Tom had a cold, skipped lectures. She rushed home to share the news—and found him in bed with another woman.
She stayed only because she had nowhere else. No question of returning to Mum—not pregnant. Tom vanished often; when Jacob was born, he left for good.
Even now, she couldn’t dwell on those years. Her mother-in-law helped—cool but reliable. Work eased things. Jacob started nursery.
Then a neighbor mentioned Mum was ill, hospitalized. Emily rushed to her, begging her to transfer to her hospital. Mum refused.
So every day after work, Emily crossed London to see her, often late fetching Jacob. Exhaustion and resentment piled up.
Even discharged, Mum wouldn’t let them move in. “The boy’s too loud,” she’d say.
A year passed in this shuffle—work, Mum, home. Emily took extra night shifts to pay for Mum’s carer. Her mother-in-law stepped in again.
Then Mum forgot her. Ranted about her “ungrateful daughter” to this “stranger”—how she’d abandoned her after all she’d done.
It crushed Emily. When Mum recognized her, she’d snap: “Come to check if I’m dead? Want the flat? You’ll wait.”
Emily bit back years of hurt—it was pointless. Next day, Mum wouldn’t know her again.
Only when Mum was bedbound did Emily and Jacob move in. In rare moments of clarity, they finally talked—both crying, apologizing.
*Too late.* The next day, Mum was blank again. But they coexisted peacefully.
One night, Emily woke uneasy. Mum was awake—almost smiling. She held her hand till dawn, till the last breath. No more grudges…
***
The case with Agnes’s son shifted Emily’s view. On Mother’s Day, she swapped shifts and went to the cemetery. The day was warm, dry. She replaced wilted flowers. Mum’s photo on the headstone looked stern but not unkind.
At the gates, she spotted Agnes’s son—Henry. He was speaking to someone. *Good, he came to visit her,* she thought. Passing him, she nodded.
“Wait,” he called.
She turned.
“You lost someone too? I’m sorry about how I spoke—”
“It’s Mother’s Day. I visited mine,” Emily said.
“Nine days today… 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 drove.
“I did,” she admitted, watching graves fade behind them.
She recalled his name—Henry. It was in Agnes’s file.
“I barely drink. Let me explain.” He paused. “Mum was my best friend. Till I fell for a woman with a kid. She said: ‘Her or me.’ We split. I never forgave Mum. Walked out. Years passed. When I heard she was hospitalized…” He trailed off.
“So your grudge kept you from burying her?”
“I *forgave* her!” Henry slammed the wheel. “I just couldn’t say it in time.”
“You wanted to punish her, but punished yourself. Forgive *yourself*—it’ll ease the weight.”
“You sound like you’ve been there,” he said, glancing at her.
“Mum and I had our struggles. We just reconciled in time—though she forgot me after.”
“Come to mine. Nine days… I can’t bear it alone,” he said suddenly.
“I can’t. My son’s coming home—”
“How old?”
“Year Eight.”
“He’s old enough. Just an hour. Mum would’ve wanted you there.”
“After you blamed me for her death?”
“I apologized. Please.”
She relented. Over tea, Henry shared his life. Their stories mirrored oddly. When she rose to leave, he insisted on driving.
“I’m fine. Women complain men don’t help—then refuse when offered,” he teased, studying her.
She flushed under his gaze.
“Emily,” he said as they neared her home, “no matter how we hurt, our mums loved us. Maybe they brought us together. Let’s drop the formalities.”
She smiled. In another life, they’d never have met. Finding someone who *understands*—that was rare.
