In a quiet village in Yorkshire, young Emily Whitmore would visit her ageing mother once every other day, leaving food and a pitcher of water by the bedside before slipping away without a word.
Emily had always been ashamed of her mother, a simple countrywoman who had spent her life toiling in the fields. Once a fine cook, her mother had taken great pride in baking pies and stews for the family, always sharing generously with the neighbours. But after her husband passed, she was left alone, and Emily seldom called on her. As the years wore on, her mother began forgetting thingsleaving the kettle boiling too long, misplacing her spectacles, murmuring odd, disjointed words.
One evening, Emily arrived to the acrid stench of burnt pastry. The old woman had forgotten the oven was on.
“What in heavens name are you doing? You cant even warm a meal without nearly burning the house down!” Emily scolded, her voice sharp as flint.
“Love, Im ever so sorryits the first time its happened!” her mother pleaded.
With time, her health worsened. Even walking across the cottage became a struggle. One afternoon, she rang Emily, her voice thin with fear.
“Em, dear, I dont feel rightmy chests gone tight. Could you come?”
“Do I look like a physician? Ring for the doctor yourself!” Emily snapped, slamming down the receiver.
Soon, her mother no longer left her bed. Emily begrudgingly visited once a week, hauling in the cheapest groceries from the market, tidying half-heartedly, and grumbling as she took out the bins.
“How do you manage to make such a mess living alone? Have you no shame?”
Each visit ended with the door banging shut behind her. Until, at last, her mother stopped rising altogether. Emily came every other day then, setting down stale bread and tepid water before hurrying off. One morning, she found her mother cold and still.
After the burial, Emily began haunting the churchyard, kneeling by the grave, whispering through tears:
“Oh, how I miss my darling, precious mother! She was the kindest soul, the dearest heart in all the world!”
Yet one could not help but wonderdid she truly remember only the good? Had she forgotten how shed scorned her mothers frailty, turned away from her pleas, left her to wither alone? How easily the guilty heart rewrites the past.
