“How can you not? She’s your mother! You wept by her bedside, and now you refuse to bury her?” Emily gasped in outrage.
“Doctor Hughes, the patient in room four said Mrs. Whitmore passed away.”
Emily set down her pen, rose from her desk, adjusted her nurse’s cap in the mirror of the wardrobe door, and strode out of the office.
The door to room four was slightly ajar. Emily entered silently. A hunched young man stood by the bed of Anna Whitmore, murmuring under his breath, his sighs heavy. One glance confirmed it—Anna Whitmore was gone. Her eyes closed, lips parted.
Emily glanced at the neighboring beds. One was empty; in the other lay an elderly woman who immediately beckoned her, as if she’d been waiting. Emily approached.
“He’s been standing there for ten minutes,” the woman whispered, widening her eyes for emphasis. “Begging forgiveness. Said he didn’t want anyone called—just wanted to say goodbye.”
Emily returned to the bed. “We should move her. The other patients are unsettled—” She broke off when the man turned sharply toward her, his face red and streaked with tears. “Your mother has passed. Nothing can change that,” she said softly.
*Strange—a grown man grieving so deeply. They must have been close.*
“Why was she even here?” he rasped.
An odd question. Most asked *how* their loved one died. “Come to my office. I’ll explain everything.” She turned, but he seized her wrist. “Let go! You’re hurting me!”
“Why did 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 never complained to *you* doesn’t mean she was well. Maybe she spared you—or didn’t expect your help. She lay here for weeks, and you never visited. Now you stand here weeping.”
“I didn’t know. I was away. A neighbor told me today,” he said, calmer now.
“Come to my office,” she repeated wearily, but he didn’t move.
She left to give instructions, but Anna’s son never came. Nurse Lucy said he’d left. Emily assumed grief had overwhelmed him—he’d return. But two days later, the morgue called. No one had claimed the body.
“What do you mean, *no one*?” She remembered the weeping man. “I’ll handle it.”
*He didn’t collect her? After all those tears? Did something happen? Or did he drown his sorrows and lose track of time?* She found Anna’s file, dialed the next-of-kin number.
No answer. Just as she was about to hang up, a slurred voice growled: “What d’you want?”
“Your mother’s physician. Are you planning her funeral?”
“I… can’t.”
“*Can’t*? Are you drunk? She’s your mother! You wept at her bedside—now you won’t bury her?” Emily’s voice trembled with fury. “Listen, the morgue keeps bodies for seven days free of charge. After that—”
“You killed my mum, and now you call—” The line crackled, then went dead.
“*Jerk*,” Emily muttered. “What kind of man forgets to bury his own mother?”
She’d seen worse in her career—rudeness, ingratitude. But this stuck with her.
She remembered burying *her* mother…
***
Their relationship had never been easy. A single mother, strict to the bone. Even in secondary school, Emily had a nine o’clock curfew. While classmates dyed their hair blue or pink, she didn’t dare. Makeup? Out of the question.
Buying a dress she liked was a battle. Mum insisted on “practical” clothes—versatile, sensible. Tears changed nothing.
Summer jobs as a hospital cleaner paid for her first nice dress and shoes. But Mum scoffed: “Spent every penny on yourself. I thought you’d help *me* when you earned.”
Medical school brought more scorn: “How long must I feed you, a grown girl?”
At twenty, Emily fled, ignoring her mother’s screams. She moved in with a classmate, married him when she got pregnant. His parents were unfazed. No grand wedding—just a quiet registry office affair.
Then she miscarried. The marriage held, barely.
When she got pregnant again, she waited to tell. By the time she did, her husband had a cold—or so he claimed. She rushed home early one day, hoping to share the news, and found him in bed with another woman.
She stayed only because she had nowhere else. Returning to Mum, pregnant and shamed, was unthinkable. He vanished completely after their son, Oliver, was born.
Her mother-in-law helped—no warmth, but support. Things eased once Oliver started nursery and Emily returned to work.
Years later, a chance meeting with a neighbor revealed Mum was ill, hospitalized. Emily rushed to her, begged her to transfer to her own hospital. Mum refused.
Daily visits across town exhausted her. She took extra night shifts to pay for Mum’s carer. Her mother-in-law stepped in again.
After discharge, Mum still barred her from moving in—”Too noisy with the boy.” A year of juggling work, home, and Mum’s care left her drained.
Then Mum forgot her. Ranted about her “ungrateful daughter” to the stranger she thought Emily was. When recognition flickered, she’d snap: “Come to see if I’m dead yet? After my flat, are you? Well, you’ll wait!”
Emily bit back her own bitterness—what was the point?
Only when Mum was bedridden did they finally move in. In rare lucid moments, they talked—really talked. Both wept, apologizing.
Too little, too late.
One night, a pang of dread woke Emily. She found Mum awake—smiling, even. She held her hand till dawn, till the last breath left her. No more anger.
***
The case with Anna’s son made Emily revisit it all. On Remembrance Sunday, she swapped shifts and visited the cemetery. The day was warm, dry. She cleared wilted flowers from the grave, laid fresh ones. The photo on the headstone showed Mum stern but not unkind.
At the gates, she spotted Anna’s son talking to someone. *Good. He came.* She nodded as she passed.
“Wait,” he called.
She turned.
“Lost someone too? I’m sorry—I was drunk that day. Said awful things—”
“Remembrance Sunday. Time to visit family. I was with my mum.”
“Nine days today… I’ve my car—let me drive you.”
The bus stop was packed. The thought of a cramped, stuffy ride decided her.
“You think I’m a drunk?” he asked as they pulled away.
“I did,” she admitted, watching graves fade through the window.
She remembered his name now—Greg. It was in Anna’s file.
“I don’t drink. Let me explain.” A pause. “Mum was my best friend. Until I fell for a woman with a kid. Mum gave an ultimatum: ‘Her or me.’ We split. I never forgave Mum. Walked out.”
Another silence.
“Never married. Didn’t speak for years. When I heard she was ill… You know the rest.”
“So you delayed the funeral? Still resenting her?”
“I *forgave* her!” Greg smacked the wheel. “I just… never got to say it.”
“You wanted to punish her. Instead, you’re punishing yourself. Forgive *yourself*. It’ll ease the weight.”
“Like you’re reading my mind,” Greg glanced at her.
“I had a difficult mother too. Only difference—we made peace before the end.”
“Come to mine. Nine days… Hard being alone.”
“I can’t. My son’s due home—”
“How old?”
“Thirteen.”
“He’s big. Just for a bit. Mum would’ve wanted you there.”
“After accusing me of killing her?”
“I apologized. Please.”
She relented. Over tea, Greg barely touched the drink she’d expected. His story mirrored hers uncannily.
When she rose to leave, he offered to drive her.
“No, I’ll manage.”
“Barely drank. You women—complain men don’t help, then refuse when they do,” he teased, studying her.
She flushed under his gaze.
“You know, Emily,” Greg said as they neared her home, “no matter how we fought with our mums—they loved us. And they brought us together. Let’s skip the formalities—call me Greg.”
She smiled. Under different circumstances, they’d never have met. Finding someone who *understood*—that was rare.
