Work Text:
How do you say goodbye when it’s not time to go?
Mum was weak. She is weakened every day by that bloody curse. She’s paler than Dad and me, shaking, and sleeping through most days.
It’s a good day when she is awake for more than an hour. If she wakes for that long, I’ll read to her. She likes being read to now. Reading’s hard for her since it hurts her eyes to concentrate on the tiny words. Mum taught me to read. It feels wrong being able to read whenever I feel like it knowing my mum probably can’t again.
Dad takes good care of Mum. Every day. For twenty-four hours of those days. He barely leaves her side. He doesn’t want her to be alone, so we spend most days sitting in her room. If I could spend all my days, I’d give them to her—being with her, even if it’s just sitting together while she sleeps.
Aunt Daphne stopped visiting a few weeks ago. Seeing her baby sister like that got too hard for her to do. She still writes to Dad, wishing us all the best, especially Mum.
Mum’s parents—or my grandparents—haven’t visited their daughter for six months. No letters. No wishes for recovery. They’ve given up. Given up on their own child. It’s bullshit. Dad just says it’s extremely hard for them to see her like this. He understands that if I were in Mum’s position, seeing me like that would be difficult.
But he would still visit me. Mum’s parents don’t even try to make a small effort for their dying daughter, who at most has a year or so left.
I heard the healers and Dad talking the other day.
In a few months, she’ll be gone. Grandma and Grandpa will have wasted any time they could have spent with her and probably blame Dad for everything. Dad will apologize. I know he will.
Dad’s apologetic when it comes to Mum. Either to Mum or the people around her—healers, her parents.
Something about Mum brings out the soft side of Dad. It’s beautiful.