**Diary Entry**
*How is that possible? She’s your mother! You wept at her bedside, and now you won’t bury her?* My breath caught in my throat from sheer disbelief.
“Dr. Evelyn Carter,” I said, forcing calm into my voice, “the patient in Ward Four just informed me Mrs. Harrington has passed.”
I set down my pen, rose from my desk, and smoothed a stray lock of hair beneath my cap before stepping out of the office. The door to Ward Four was ajar, and I slipped inside quietly. At Mrs. Eleanor Harrington’s bedside stood a young man, hunched over, murmuring in low, choked breaths. A single glance told me what I already knew—Eleanor was gone, her eyes shut, lips slightly parted.
I scanned the room. One bed was empty; in the other, an elderly woman caught my eye and beckoned urgently. I approached her.
“He’s been standing there for ten minutes,” she whispered, widening her eyes for emphasis. “Begging forgiveness. Didn’t want anyone called—said he needed a moment alone.”
I returned to the bed. “We should move her. The other patients are distressed—” My words cut short as the man turned sharply, his face blotchy with tears. “Your mother is gone. Nothing will change that,” I said softly.
*Odd, a grown man grieving like this. They must have been close.*
“Why was she even here?” he rasped suddenly.
A strange question. Most ask *how*, not *why*. “Let’s discuss this in my office—” I turned toward the door, but he seized my wrist. “Let go! You’re hurting me!” I snapped.
“And you let her die! She was never ill! She—” His voice cracked, and he pressed a hand to his eyes.
I twisted free. “Just because she spared you her suffering doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. She lay here for *two weeks* without a single visit from you. And now you stand here weeping?”
“I didn’t know,” he muttered, quieter now. “I was away. A neighbor told me today.”
“Come to my office,” I repeated wearily, but he didn’t move.
I left to make the necessary arrangements, but he never came by. Nurse Sarah said he’d stormed out. Grief is unpredictable—I assumed he’d return. But two days later, the morgue called. No one had claimed the body.
“*No one?*” I pictured his broken sobs. “I’ll handle it,” I said and hung up.
*He didn’t even bury her? After all that sorrow?* Maybe he’d lost himself to grief—or drink. I found Eleanor’s file and dialed the emergency contact.
After a long silence, a slurred voice answered. “Whaddya want?”
“This is her doctor. Are you planning to bury your mother?”
“I—I can’t—”
“*Can’t?* You drink yourself senseless and forget your own mother’s funeral? You wept at her bedside!” My anger flared. “After seven days, storage fees—”
“You killed her,” he spat. The line went dead.
“Rude drunk,” I muttered. *What kind of man neglects his mother’s burial?*
I’d seen my share of callous relatives in my years as a doctor. Shaking it off, I told myself he’d sober up and return. But the next day, chaos kept me from calling. No word from the morgue meant he must have finally come—yet the encounter gnawed at me.
And it made me think of my own mother.
***
Our relationship had always been strained. A single parent, Mum was stern. Even in sixth form, she forbade me from returning past nine. While classmates dyed their hair turquoise or fuchsia, I dared only to imagine it. Makeup? Out of the question.
Convincing her to buy the dress I loved was a battle. She insisted on “practical” clothes—ones that suited any occasion. Tears changed nothing.
At sixteen, I took a summer job as a hospital cleaner to buy that dress and a pair of heels. But my joy soured when Mum accused me of selfishness. “Not a penny for me? Just *clothes*?”
“I thought once you earned, you’d lift some burden,” she’d hissed when I enrolled in med school. “Must I feed you forever?”
Home became unbearable. I dreamed of escape. By second year, I fled—ignoring her shouts—to live with a classmate in a rented flat.
He didn’t refuse when I fell pregnant. His parents were indifferent. We planned a small registry wedding—no fuss. But then I miscarried. The urgency faded. Still, Daniel married me.
When I conceived again in final year, I waited—terrified—to tell him until the danger passed. He’d been unwell, missing lectures. Rushing home to share the news, I found him in bed with another woman.
I stayed only because I had nowhere else. Returning to Mum, pregnant and shamed, was unthinkable. Daniel began vanishing for days. By the time Oliver was born, he’d left for good.
Those years were bleak. My mother-in-law helped—though without warmth. Eventually, I qualified, Oliver started nursery, and life eased. She babysat during my night shifts.
Then, by chance, I ran into a neighbor. “Your mum’s quite ill,” she said. “Hospitalised.”
Guilt propelled me to her bedside. I begged forgiveness, urged her to transfer to my hospital. She refused.
So, each evening after work, I crossed town to see her. Late to collect Oliver, exhausted, resentments festered. Even after discharge, she barred us from moving in—”That boy’s too loud. I need quiet.”
A year passed in this limbo. I took extra shifts to pay for her carer until my mother-in-law stepped in again.
Then came the day Mum didn’t recognise me. “Ungrateful girl,” she’d ranted to a stranger (me). “Never visits, after all I’ve done…”
*How that stung.* Brief moments of clarity brought cruel whiplash—”Here to claim my flat? Well, I’m not dead yet!”
I ached to scream my grievances. But what use? The next day, she’d forget again.
Only when she became bedridden did Oliver and I move in. Then, in a rare lucid hour, we finally spoke heart-to-heart. Both wept. Apologies spilled.
*Too late.* Nothing left to mend. Even as her memory failed, peace settled between us.
One night, unease woke me. I found Mum awake—smiling, almost. Held her hand till dawn, until her last breath. No more anger.
***
That son’s abandonment forced me to revisit my own sorrow. On Memorial Sunday, I swapped shifts and visited the cemetery. The day was warm, dry. Clearing wilted flowers from Mum’s grave, I replaced them with fresh blooms. Her photo on the headstone gazed sternly—but not unkindly.
At the gates, I spotted Eleanor Harrington’s son speaking with another mourner. *Good—he came after all.* Nodding as I passed, I murmured a greeting.
“Wait,” he called.
I turned.
“Did you… lose someone too? Look, I was drunk that day—said awful things—”
“Memorial Sunday. Time to visit parents.”
“Nine days since she… Let me drive you.”
The bus stop was crowded. The thought of a stifling ride decided me.
“You think I’m a drunk?” he asked as we pulled away.
“*Absolutely*,” I said, watching graves shrink behind us.
His name returned to me—*Gregory*. It was on Eleanor’s file.
“I don’t drink. Let me explain.” A pause. “Mum was my best friend. Until I fell for a woman with a child. She demanded, *‘Her or me.’* We split. I left and never forgave her.”
His knuckles whitened on the wheel. “Years passed. When I heard she was ill… Well, you know the rest.”
“So your grudge kept you from burying her?”
“I *forgave* her!” he burst out. “I just—never got to say it.” A fist struck the wheel.
“You punished her—but only yourself. Now you’ll regret those unsaid words forever. Forgive *yourself*; it’ll ease the weight.”
He glanced at me, startled. “You read my mind.”
“Had my own struggles with Mum. Only difference—we reconciled before she forgot me.”
“Come back to mine,” he blurted. “It’s been nine days. I can’t face it alone.”
“I can’t. My son’s due home—”
“How old?”
“Twelve.”
“He’ll be fine. Please. Mum would’ve wanted you there.”
“After accusing me of killing her?”
“I *apologized*. I’m asking—”
No excuses left, I relented. Over tea, he spoke soberly. Our mirrored pain stunned me. As I prepared to leave, he insisted on driving.As we pulled up to my house, he hesitated before saying, “Maybe our mums knew we’d need each other after all,” and in that moment, I realized grief had woven our lives together in ways neither of us could have expected.
