Chapter 1 - WHY DON’T YOU JUST DIE?The spoon came too fast.
Beatrice Rowan had barely swallowed the first mouthful before Monica was pushing another toward her lips.
“Open.”
Beatrice turned her head.
It was the smallest movement she could manage.
Once, before the stroke, she had walked three miles every morning before breakfast. She had volunteered at the elementary school library, driven herself to church, gardened until her knees complained, and argued cheerfully with cashiers who tried to put too many canned goods in one bag.
Now turning her head six inches felt like moving through water.
Monica exhaled sharply.
“Come on.”
Beatrice tried to lift her left hand.
It trembled above the wheelchair armrest and fell again.
The right side of her body responded even less.
She understood everything.
That was the cruelest part.
Every word.
Every sigh.
Every expression on Monica’s face.
She just could not make her own mouth cooperate.
“Open.”
The spoon touched her lips again.
Beatrice closed them.
Food was already smeared near the corner of her mouth.
Monica set the bowl down hard enough to make the spoon rattle.
“Do you know how long this takes?”
Beatrice stared at her.
She wanted to say:
I’m trying.
She wanted to say:
Please slow down.
Instead a weak breath escaped her throat.
Monica’s expression tightened.
“Don’t start.”
Beatrice’s eyes burned.
It had been four months since the stroke.
Four months since the world had divided itself into before and after.
Before, she had lived alone in a small brick house twenty minutes from Gavin and Monica.
After, Gavin insisted she move into their home until she recovered enough independence.
Beatrice had resisted.
Not because she did not love her son.
Because she knew what caregiving cost.
“I can hire help,” she had tried to say during rehabilitation, her speech broken beyond recognition.
Gavin had squeezed her hand.
“You’re my mother. You’re coming home with us.”
At first Monica had agreed.
Of course.
Whatever you need.
We’re family.
But kindness had a shelf life.
At least Monica’s did.
The first impatient sigh came during the second week.
Then the muttered complaints.
Then the slammed cabinet doors.
Then sentences Monica believed Beatrice could not fully understand.
“She’s taking over our entire lives.”
“I can’t do this forever.”
“Your mother needs professional care, Gavin.”
Gavin had answered that they would arrange more help.
Some help came.
Then less.
And when Gavin left for work, Monica became someone else.
That afternoon sunlight filled the Rowan living room.
It was a beautiful room.
Warm hardwood floors.
Cream-colored walls.
Family photographs.
A dining table by the windows.
Everything looked safe.
That was another cruel thing.
Bad things did not always happen in dark rooms.
Sometimes they happened under bright afternoon light while framed photographs of smiling families watched from the walls.
Monica picked up the spoon again.
“Let’s finish this.”
Beatrice tried to turn away.
Monica caught the back of the wheelchair.
“Stop.”
Beatrice’s breathing quickened.
Another spoonful.
Too fast.
Food smeared onto her chin.
Monica grabbed a napkin and wiped harder than necessary.
“Damn old woman.”
Beatrice froze.
Monica looked directly into her eyes.
And because no other adult was home, she let the thought inside her become sound.
“Why don’t you just die already?”
Beatrice stopped breathing for a moment.
Not from physical pain.
From the precision of it.
She had known Monica resented her.
She had never heard the wish spoken plainly.
Her eyes filled with tears.
Monica saw.
Instead of apologizing, she looked irritated.
“Oh, please.”
Then footsteps pounded down the hallway.
“Grandma?”
Tyler appeared.
Ten years old.
Brown hair slightly messy from school.
Navy polo untucked on one side.
He stopped.
His eyes went from the food around Beatrice’s mouth to the tears on her face.
Then to his mother.
“Mom!”
Monica’s shoulders stiffened.
“What?”
“What are you doing?”
“Feeding your grandmother.”
“She’s crying.”
“She’s frustrated.”
Tyler rushed to Beatrice.
“Grandma?”
He crouched beside the wheelchair.
Beatrice looked at him.
Relief hit so hard another tear fell.
Tyler saw it.
He reached for the spoon.
“Let me feed her.”
Monica pulled it away.
“No.”
“You’re going too fast.”
“I know how to feed her.”
“She doesn’t like it.”
“Tyler.”
“Mom, stop!”
Monica stood.
Her face changed completely.
“Get out.”
Tyler blinked.
“What?”
“Go upstairs.”
“No.”
“Tyler.”
He stepped closer to Beatrice instead.
“No.”
Monica pointed toward the hallway.
“GET OUT. NOW.”
Tyler wrapped both arms carefully around his grandmother.
Beatrice slowly raised her trembling hand.
It took everything she had.
Finally her fingers touched Tyler’s arm.
He looked down.
Then back at his mother.
“I’m staying with Grandma.”
“Tyler, I said get out!”
Monica stepped toward him, still holding the bowl and spoon.
Tyler tightened his arms.
Beatrice could feel his heart hammering.
Then—
the front door opened.
Everyone froze.
A man’s shoes crossed the entryway.
Gavin Rowan stepped inside carrying his briefcase, loosening his tie.
He stopped when he saw them.
Monica standing beside the dining table.
Tyler holding Beatrice.
Food smeared around Beatrice’s mouth.
Tears on her cheeks.
Tyler turned toward the door.
His expression changed instantly.
Hope.
Pure, desperate hope.
May you like
“DAD!”
And Monica’s face went white.
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