Fading ember

Ann had spent her whole life disappearing, but death had a way of making things clear.

She sat beside the hospital bed, watching the old, fragile woman lying still beneath the harsh white lights. The lights hummed softly above them, like a winter sun trying but failing to warm anything it touched.

Her mother’s thin and weightless hand hung over the mattress. It reminded Ann of the brittle autumn leaves she used to collect as a child, each one beautiful in its fragility. Her mother had not woken since she was rushed in that early morning, drifting in and out of the world like a fading ember.

Ann studied her closely. She could barely reconcile this frail body with the woman she once knew. The mother in her memories had round cheeks, bright laughter, and hands strong enough to lift grocery bags and stubborn children. Now, only the familiar shape of her eyes confirmed this was still her mother.

As the middle child, Ann had always lived in the quiet space between her siblings. Her mother’s love rested on her older son; her father’s affection wrapped tightly around the youngest daughter. Ann existed like the silent space between two paragraphs; necessary, but often overlooked. She learned early to keep her needs small, her voice soft, her dreams reasonable.

“Girls shouldn’t always play with boys.”
“Be useful.”
“You’re not as pretty as your sister.”

Her mother’s traditional beliefs had trapped around her like vines with thorns. It had restricted her, yet somehow becoming part of her.

And still, whenever her parents needed help, it was always Ann who showed up first.

Last night, when her mother collapsed, Ann had been the one to carry her—the responsibility far heavier than her mother’s now feather-light body. Her sister arrived later, sobbing so loudly she couldn’t be of any real help. Her brother, living abroad and long detached from the family, grudgingly booked a flight only because tradition demanded it of the eldest son, not because love compelled him.

Ann reached for her mother’s skeletal hand. As she held it, her mother’s eyelids fluttered open. Her gaze, once sharp enough to notice every flaw and every rule broken, now wandered uncertainly before settling on Ann’s face.

Her mother stared with cloudy surprise, as though waking into the world that was supposed to be left behind.

“Mom,” Ann whispered, leaning close, “it’s okay. If it hurts too much… you can let go. It’s okay.”

Her mother blinked slowly, twice. The first one as though to confirm the pain she was suffering, and the second as to tell Ann that she would do as she suggested.

For a while, they remained suspended in the silence. Every ticking of the clock was bringing her mother closer towards the afterlife.

Her mother’s eyes drifted shut. She slept again. Her eyes shut so tight, as if she had closed the door to this world, once and for all.

Ann stood, her body stiff, but something inside her loosening for the first time in years.

She stroked the fragile hand one last time and leaned down to kiss her mother’s forehead. As she leaned down, she heard her mother’s voice speaking in her heart.

“If it hurts too much, you can let go. It’s okay.“

Ann took a slow breath. It felt like the world had become larger and freer.

“Thanks mom,” she whispered, and slowly blinked twice, “I will.”