She would die in the old manor where she’d lived for all of her eighty years; Michael knew that the moment Sarah called to inform him of their mother’s second heart attack.

‘You’ll come home, won’t you?’ said Sarah.

‘Have you taken her to hospital?’

‘She won’t go.’

‘Then I’ll be down in the morning.’

His sister sighed. ‘You can’t come now?’

‘It’s midnight, Sarah.’

‘And I suppose you’ve been drinking.’

‘I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine. I’d hardly call that drinking. ‘

‘Well, it’s nice to see where your priorities lie.’

‘I’m not arguing about this. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Michael said, hanging up.

At forty-five, Sarah was five years Michael’s junior, but it was in the old manner of their relationship that she talk to him like a misbehaved child; more so in the months since she had moved back with their mother, looking after her as she would the family she so longed to have.

‘What’s happened?’ Phil asked as Michael pushed open the bedroom door.

‘Mother’s taken a turn for the worse. I’m driving back in the morning.’

‘Shall I come with you?’

Michael smiled as he slipped into bed. ‘I can’t see Mother being keen on that, can you?’

‘Well, I’ve never met her.’

‘So isn’t that answer enough?’

Phil took Michael’s hand in his, a touch - after twenty five years - as familiar as his own reflection.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, in all honesty.

Lying in Phil’s embrace, Michael stared at the red digits of the digital alarm clock. Was it normal for him to feel numb at the news that his mother was close to death? Probably not. But their relationship had never been one he’d call normal. In fact, he wasn’t at all taken aback that the only emotion this news stirred in him was relief.

*
‘She’s in the kitchen,’ Sarah said when he arrived.

‘How is she?’

‘She’s had a heart attack. How do you think she is?’

Michael followed his sister into the stuffy room where their mother’s two tortoiseshell cats were curled in front of the Aga.

Their mother was in her rocking chair beside the television that she never watched, a blanket over her knees.

‘Look who’s here, Mum,’ Sarah said softly. ‘It’s Michael.’
Michael sat in one of the kitchen chairs beside her.

‘Hello, Mother.’

It’d been a year since last he had seen her and her deterioration was immediately apparent: no shine in her eyes, no colour in her skin. The pale purple cardigan she wore had more life in it than the body it covered.

Looking at her now, Michael couldn’t see even a shadow of the woman he’d long held in such contempt, and he felt a pang of regret for so defiantly cutting her out of his life. Could it really be too late to make amends?

‘Michael?’ his mother said, putting out her hand.

‘I’m here,’ he replied, taking her hand in his. ‘I’m here.’