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My mother has been very ill for the past few weeks. Her heart is failing at an increasing rate. The doctor visits us at home - he says there isn’t much to be done anymore other than wait for her decline. And so we wait.
I’m not sad. Not beyond the surface. Not in the depths of my soul. In there, I feel nothing for this woman other than resentment. But she is my mother still. And I am the better son, the favourite one. It is my duty to care for her, although she never cared for me.
We have a nurse tending to her, of course. In the morning while I’m at work, this girl comes in and replaces me. She’s of Indian descent, and my mother gives her strange looks. Too bad that she is at the Indian girl’s mercy.
We could afford to have a live-in carer, but Walburga Black is too proud for that. Besides, I am convinced that she enjoys having me at her disposal. When has she ever not? I have been at her feet my entire life, killing myself to please her. True to form, I serve her dutifully in her final days.
My wife tries to comfort me. She doesn’t understand the complex dynamics between me and my mother, mainly because I’ve never let her. I’ve never confessed to her what a coward I’ve been. Because I’m deeply ashamed. No, Josephine doesn’t need to know of the history I have with my mother. She would be disturbed, and definitely unwilling to raise her precious children in the house where this woman resides.
The children, my beautiful children. They aren’t particularly fond of their grandmother - they simply fear her, like everyone else. She isn’t fond of them either. They are the last of the Blacks, however, and Walburga respects them for it. Especially my little Perseus, who is burdened with the task of continuing the sacred family line. He is now the sole heir, since my brother never produced any offspring.
My brother. I haven’t troubled him with our mother’s suffering, he doesn’t need to know about it. He opted out of these matters a long time ago, when he was kicked out of this house and this family for his disobedience. Sirius is a brave man, always has been. As a child I used to admire him. His devilish pranks were bright beams of sunlight slipping in through the cracks of our dreary childhood. He was courageous and always spoke his mind. He resisted and protested when he was faced with injustice. And he was punished for it, as rebels often are.
When Sirius left, I couldn’t help but blame him. Did he have to provoke our mother’s rage simply to prove a point? Did he not think about me and the agony I would be left in without him? How could he be so selfish? We were all suffering, more or less, and bore our burdens without complaining. We endured the vultures that devoured our insides with the silent and dignified resignation we had been taught was proper. So how dare he break his chains?
I resented him for a few years, when I still had no contact with him. I was determined to prove myself even more now, to comfort and please my unloving parents, to appease them after the disappointment my brother had been. I got myself into law school, although I never wanted to be a lawyer. But no matter how hard I tried, how many achievements I ticked off, how many awards and honours I received, the void was never filled. My mother never loved me like I hoped she would. She appeared proud of my triumphs, but then the joy quickly faded and gave its place to indifference.
I know it’s sheer idiocy to still expect her to change. To still hope that she might love me. The woman has proven herself incapable of loving her own children. I’ve known this for a time longer than I’d care to admit. And yet I still try. Like a desperate fool, I still hope.
I wonder if Sirius has stopped caring. If our mother’s cruelty seems to him like a distant dream. I haven’t asked him, although I’d like to. What stops me? Well, the fear that he might say yes.
Ever since we reconnected - secretly, of course, lest my mother disown me as well - the idea has been gnawing at me; what if Sirius did the right thing and I did the wrong one? What if rebelling and being cut off was what set him free, and I’m still here, a prisoner of my own preoccupations? I dare not ask. I wouldn’t be able to take it.
My mother sleeps, the oxygen mask obscuring her face. She’s peaceful at last, after a long and torturous night of desperately gasping for air. I muse at the irony; she suffocated us for years, and now she’s the one unable to breathe. It is an irreverent thought, but I relish it. This is as far as my rebellions would ever go.
I watch her breath as it clouds the clear plastic of the mask and then retreats again. Her breathing is slow and difficult, I can tell. Right before it happens, I sense it; a chill runs down my spine. She lets out a terrible wheeze, hollow and otherworldly. And then her breathing ceases. She’s gone.
Like a gentle wave, relief washes over me and brings me to the shore. I don’t know if I’m truly free, however. Perhaps Walburga’s ghost will torment me for all my days. Her death brings no comfort, undoes no harm. But even so, it’s a respite.
The forecast said there would be rain tomorrow. And so I’ll stand next to my wife under a black umbrella, holding her hand as she weeps into a handkerchief. I’ll listen to the preacher as he gives my mother the final farewell. I’ll breathe in the scent of damp earth and watch my mother’s expensive, well-varnished coffin lowered into the pit. Perhaps I’ll shed a few tears myself. Will I mourn the woman who ruined me? Or will I lament my own irreparable damage?
I pull the oxygen mask from her face and look at her one last time before I notify the others. Even death has failed to tarnish her terrifying beauty.
“Goodbye, Mother,” I whisper. “I hope you’ll burn in Hell.”