Diary on The Day Mother Died

The house is quiet tonight. Even the old grandfather clock seems hesitant to tick, as though it, too, has grown weary of the years it has been counting.

This morning, the nurse called it—the moment we all knew was coming but no one could ever quite prepare for. Mother passed away. I suppose I should write Mom—a softer word, a more intimate one—but somehow it doesn’t feel right. Not now.

I sat beside her after the nurse left, looking at her face—so still, so calm. It felt strange to see her like that, after years of watching her twist and sigh in those moments when her body tried to communicate, to remind me she was still there. Or maybe it was just muscle memory, a cruel reflex that kept her clinging to a life she had long since vacated. For once, she didn’t demand anything. No feeding tubes, no endless rituals. Just peace.

Eight years. Eight years is a long time to be someone's everything. Longer than some marriages last. Longer than I had ever intended to stay here. I remember thinking, all those years ago, that this would be temporary—that the doctors would find some way to bring her back or, failing that, she would fade gently but swiftly. But she didn’t. She held on, tethered to a body that wouldn’t let her go, and tethering me along with her. How many things did I let slip away during those years? Opportunities. Friendships. Romance. Myself.

I know people will say I should feel sorrow, maybe relief. But what I really feel is... weightless. Untethered. Tomorrow, they’ll come to take her things, and soon this house will have just me. I wonder what that will feel like. To be free of all her noises. To finally start hearing my own.

They say grief is complicated. I wonder if they’d say the same about whatever this is. She’s gone now, leaving behind nothing but her corpse—and the bruises and knife scars I left in her flesh over the years out of frustration and anger. Will they find them before my flight tonight? I wonder.