Emily visited her mother every other day. She left food and water by the bed before slipping away without a word.
I have a neighbour named Emily. Her mother had lived alone for years. Once, she was a brilliant cook, filling the kitchen with the warmth of freshly baked pies and stews, always sharing with the family and neighbours.
But Emily was ashamed of herjust a simple country woman whod spent her life working the land. After her husband passed, the old woman was left to herself. Emily rarely visited. And her mother began forgetting things, sometimes even babbling nonsense.
One day, Emily arrived to the sharp stench of burning. Her mother had left the oven on.
“What on earth are you playing at? Cant even heat up a meal without nearly burning the house down?” Emily shouted.
“Love, Im sorry! Its never happened before!” her mother pleaded.
Her health worsened. Walking became a struggle, even indoors. One evening, she called Emily, voice trembling.
“Em, I dont feel right. My blood pressures gone funny. Can you come?”
“Am I a doctor? Call an ambulance!” Emily snapped, hanging up.
Soon, her mother stopped leaving the house entirely. Emily drove over each week, hauling the cheapest groceries, grudgingly wiping surfaces and taking out bins. Always fuming.
“How do you manage to make such a mess living alone? Have you no shame?”
Shed slam the door on her way out. Eventually, her mother couldnt even rise from bed. Emily came every other day, dropping off meals and water, then vanishing. One morning, she found her mother cold and still.
After the funeral, Emily began visiting the grave often, murmuring,
“Oh, how I miss my darling, precious mum! She was the dearest, most beloved soul in the world!”
Had she truly forgotten? Forgotten the neglect, the refusal to help, the scorn? Or had she rewritten it all in her mind? The heart is a strange thing.
