She gets up from the recliner. She’s wearing her old robe and pink sweatpants. I fix her a plate, pull out a chair for her. She sits down and starts to eat like she’s starving. I know better than to ask when she ate last.
The stove is a disaster. Beneath the towel, charred patties congeal in an inch of greasy water. The whole stove smells rancid, caked with ashy spatters. The calendar on the wall–December 1981, when Pop died–is singed at the corners.
I feel my anger rise. “You’re just lucky you didn’t burn down the fucking house.”
I do feel sorry for the mom. Apparently she cannot look after her herself. Or am I missing something?
How sad … and, I hope that now that they know, the mom will get better help. Perhaps she should no longer live alone.
This is a human who does not know how to communicate. There are many layers to your story. Well-done.
Hopefully they both learned a lesson and things will change.
Here’s mine!
The frustration of reality and the dark side of humanity. Well told.
I agree with Bill above.
Elderly can’t do for themselves. It’s embarrassing for them
to ask for help even if it is family. I hope he accepts that and
pockets the anger. Well done …
Isadora ?
Yes, her mum needs help, and maybe swearing at her won’t help, but sometimes things can just exasperate you. Been there today, myself!
So sad, compellingly written.
Such a sad story. Illness and death are a part of life, but that it has to be endured alone is heartbreaking.