Dead Mother's Love

CW: Themes of emotional abuse and manipulation, references to grave robbing

Shadows dance along the room to the movements of the swaying chandelier. There are no lightbulbs in the room, only candles. The warm lighting isn’t enough to make the funeral less cold. Some people in the room cry while others huddle together in hushed whispers. My stomach twists in knots. I know I should feel something. She was my mother after all. I knew her better than most in this room. That’s why I don’t cry or engage in conversation. If these people ever had to walk the halls of my home under her gaze, they wouldn’t want to be here. My hands feel cold and clammy. Approaching the coffin at the front of the room, I struggle to feel anything. I wonder what poor funeral cosmetologist had the impossible task of making her look less evil. Maybe it’s just lingering memories I can’t let go of, maybe it’s just me.

I remember when I was eight and I thought Mother wasn’t home. I was snooping around her bedroom. The picture frames on the walls were silver with pictures in black and white. I didn’t recognize anyone in the photos. Maybe they were family members. Rumors said she was kicked out and disowned by her family for having a child out of wedlock. Before I knew it I had been knocked to the ground. Her features were sharp, including pale cold blue eyes, hallow cheeks, thin dark eyebrows, small pursed lips, and a small nose. The last place I wanted to look was her face.

“I told you no funny business, boy,” she said, like she was straining not to yell. Father was in the study room across the hallway. Avoiding her gaze, I fidgeted with the rough carpet. It would’ve been a mistake to defend myself. In Mother's eyes, any talk was backtalk. The smell of sanitizer spray becomes one hundred times stronger within seconds. Her favorite quick punishment is spraying me in the face with sanitizer spray. She was a busy woman who prioritized cleanliness. My eyes burned, and I fell into a coughing fit. Mother growled, telling me to get out. I ran quickly. I feel a tap on my shoulder, bringing me back to the present moment.

“You must miss her a lot,” says a lady I don’t know or remember. She seems to notice my confusion and clarifies she was my mother's personal assistant. I didn’t need clarification on who she was. Honestly, I’m just trying to think of what I’d miss her for. If I miss anything, it’s about what I never got to have. I wonder if I’m the only one here who never got to have a loving home. The funeral is full of people I don’t know. I’m not sure if there are any family members here other than me.

“I must,” I say, mustering up a polite smile. It’s hard for me to lie through my teeth. The lady gives me an odd look—a mixture of understanding and judgement. I suppose if she was around Mother a lot, she may have faced her cruelty head-on, too. I look back in the casket. Mothers' clothes are crisp, as she is dressed in her signature black pantsuit. I notice something off. Tucked in her blazer pocket is what looks like a white handkerchief with words I can’t make out on it. Mother hated white, especially white handkerchiefs. Anyone who knew her would know not to dress her in it. The smell of roses wafts up from the coffin. She always wore sweet scents. As a kid, I thought it was to conceal her witchy personality. I try not to let the bitterness in my chest show on my face.

“William,” an unfamiliar gruff voice says. A hand rests on my shoulder. I turn around to meet the gaze of a man I’d seen on Mother's bedroom wall before. Before I can ask who he is, he continues, “I’m your uncle Charles. I suppose we have some catching up to do.” Everyone else in the room seems to disappear. Has it really taken death for me to meet some of my family?

“So, that makes you her brother?” I ask, trying to keep a kind and open tone in my voice. I don’t know this man, but I struggle to reserve judgment. I know Mother could be cruel, but how could her own family leave her in the dust to only show up once she’s gone? I choke on my own breath when he asks me why I’m no longer in the will. “Excuse me, what?” My volume spikes up a bit. My eyes dart around to make sure I didn’t grab attention.

“Yeah, I heard she changed the will one hour before dying,” Charles tells me with squinted eyes. My heart seems to try to run out of my chest. The tacky tiles on the floor are suddenly more interesting than this long-lost family member. I was the only one who was consistently in her life without a paycheck requirement other than Father. I’ve always shown a level of love and care. It didn’t matter how many times she called me weak, worthless, and ambitionless.

I think back to when I made a lemonade stand in an attempt to impress her. Father had let me use some wood planks from his workshop. I built the stand all by myself. It was wonky, but it held up just fine. The sign on the front said “Wilam’s Lemonaid: five cents a cup.” I had been working all day. The hot sun glared like it anticipated judgment I had not. I was so excited to make Mother proud of me, but when she walked up to my lemonade stand, all I saw was disappointment.

“You useless child. One cent per cup? You spelled your own name wrong?” she asked, each word getting louder. I was only nine. I thought if I showed her I could run a business like hers someday, she’d like me more. “Mother, look, I almost made a dollar!” I said with a tight grin while trying not to cry. Crying would have made it worse. She only ever pointed out my shortcomings. Pointing out how I could’ve charged twenty-five cents a cup before going on a tangent about how the way I present myself matters. I shake myself out of my memories.

It’s about time I leave this room of strangers. Everything I’ve ever done was for her. Do I really deserve nothing? I will not accept this. My face contorts with emotions I can’t name. I throw open the doors and mindlessly tear through the hallways, which seem to close in. Once outside, I go to my car and think about everything that has happened. I decide to miss the burial ceremony, I only want to see her buried once.

The moonlight feels like a spotlight on my pain. I’m hyperaware of the sound of gravel crunching under my feet. Every step carries me closer to Mother's grave. A familiar sound echoes, and I wonder if I’m not as alone as I thought. It sounds like my Mother's cackle. It used to always put me on edge because it was always the same. You never knew why she was laughing until it was too late. I hate how the familiarity warms me. How can such a cold woman bring so much comfort from the grave? I almost wish she had died sooner. I approach her headstone, and there’s not a speck of dirt on it yet. Engraved on the stone is “The world lost a truly ambitious woman.” My fingers tighten around the rusty shovel I brought here. I almost forgot it was in my hands. The shovel slices through the dirt with ease since it was still broken up from being dug through just an hour earlier.

As I dig, my mind floods with questions I’ve wondered about my whole life. Did you ever love me? My heart beats quicker with every bit of dirt I move. Was I ever good enough? I’m on high alert for anyone watching over the graves. What did I do wrong? Why did you not care for me? Why was I not good enough? I deserve more than what I got from her. I never asked for anything. No complaints came from me when she’d leave me alone for weeks on end. I did everything I could to make her proud. I’ve had enough. Bile crawls up my throat when the shovel hits the casket. I drop to my knees and use the shovel to reach down and lever it open. I feel my soul recoil at the sight of her body. This feels taboo. Am I really doing this? There’s no time to waste if I don’t want to get caught.

I reach for an expensive bracelet on her wrist. The handkerchief in her blazer pocket grabs my attention again. It’s just too out of place. I grab at it to realize it’s not a handkerchief at all. It crinkles in my grip. When I pull it out of the hole, the moonlight reveals it to be an updated will. It seems she made it thirty minutes before she died. Mother was always manipulative. I scoff; she’s dead and still playing games with me. At the bottom in pencil, she wrote, “Finally, you’ve done something for yourself. I’m proud of you.” I spend moment after moment staying still. My vision blurs. Did I really have to rob a grave to make her proud? I should feel something, but instead I feel hollow. It’s almost like she’s still controlling me. According to the updated will, I’ve inherited five million two hundred thousand dollars, half of the estate, and a business I’ve never heard of. It hits me all at once as I start hiding the evidence of my crime. This so-called success hasn’t changed anything. Getting revenge won’t make me feel better.

Most importantly, her validation will never heal me. Crickets fill the silence as I walk away from the grave. Mother left me feeling angry and hurt. Maybe if robbing her grave is what finally made her feel proud, I shouldn’t turn in the will. Perhaps she isn’t the kind of woman I want to make proud. This is all so shady. My feet drag in the dirt on the way to my car. I look back at the path I was just on before opening Google Maps. I favorite a location I may never visit called Marrow County Probate Hall.