Donna

“Well,’ my mother says the next day as I arrive by her bedside with a fresh pot of tea. ‘What should we do?’

I look at her, puzzled. ‘Do?’ Until now, I thought we’d spend our time together doing very little, or nothing at all, and that I’d be miserable, although I’d hide it and deny it. I imagined, in other words, that we’d see one another, as we always have, across a divide.

‘The rain seems to be holding off for now,’ my mother continues, glancing out of her window. ‘Perhaps we could take a walk in the garden?’

‘You think you can walk?’

‘No. But there’s a wheelchair on the back porch. Do you feel fit enough to push me around?’

‘Well,’ I say, brightly. ‘That would certainly make a nice change.’

My mother snaps her head around and glowers at me. Confused, I replay the final lines of conversation in my head, then panic. ‘No, no,’ I say, backtracking. ‘I meant a nice change from being holed up in the bedroom.’

My mother continues to regard me with her penetrating stare. ‘Of course, you did,’ she says, drily.”
― Andy Marr, A Matter of Life and Death