Chapter 18 - BETH SAID SHE WAS AFRAID OF DYING ALONE
Beth requested one mediated conversation with me.
Not with Rose.
Me.
I refused twice.
The third time, Dr. Brennan asked:
“Are you refusing because contact is unsafe, or because refusal feels safer?”
I hated her for that question.
Which usually meant it was useful.
I agreed to one meeting.
No promises afterward.
Beth entered slowly.
She had lost weight.
Her hair was shorter.
No pearl necklace.
I resented noticing all of it.
She sat across from me.
“Emma.”
“Beth.”
For almost a minute, neither of us spoke.
Then she said:
“I am afraid I’m going to die alone.”
I nearly laughed.
Not from cruelty.
From disbelief.
Years earlier, that sentence would have worked.
It would have created a task.
Comfort her.
Promise access.
Repair the family.
Now I heard it simply as information.
“I’m sorry you’re afraid.”
Beth blinked.
She had expected more.
Perhaps so had I.
“I lost Andrew.”
“He chose distance.”
“I lost David.”
“He still sees you.”
“Not the way he used to.”
“No.”
“Claire barely speaks to me.”
“That is between you and Claire.”
“Rose—”
“Stop.”
She did.
That mattered.
“My daughter is not the final item on a list of people you are losing.”
Beth looked down.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Her voice shook.
“I think I used to believe family was supposed to make loneliness impossible.”
I waited.
“So when someone pulled away, I treated it like betrayal.”
“Then what?”
“I made leaving expensive.”
There it was.
Andrew’s money.
Claire’s obedience.
David’s loyalty.
Rose’s dress.
My job.
My custody.
Beth had built consequences around separation.
If people left, they lost money.
Access.
Reputation.
Belonging.
She called that family preservation.
“What are you afraid will happen if everyone chooses freely?” I asked.
Beth stared at her hands.
“That they won’t choose me.”
The honesty hurt more than arrogance would have.
For one second, I saw not the matriarch.
A frightened woman who had spent decades making herself indispensable because being loved voluntarily felt too uncertain.
Understanding arrived.
I did not confuse it with pardon.
“What did your mother do when you disobeyed?”
Beth’s head lifted sharply.
No one had told me to ask that.
She smiled without humor.
“She stopped speaking to us.”
“For how long?”
“Sometimes months.”
“Money?”
“She controlled that too.”
The pattern widened backward.
Not excuse.
Inheritance.
Beth had not invented the family system.
She perfected it.
“Did you hate her?”
“Yes.”
“And become her.”
Beth began crying.
I said nothing.
She wiped her face.
“I know.”
No argument.
No demand that I reassure her she was better.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
“To know whether there is any chance you’ll forgive me.”
“I don’t know.”
Her face fell.
I continued.
“And I am not going to decide today because you’re frightened of dying.”
She nodded.
That was new too.
“If Rose decides she doesn’t want future visits, you cannot punish David for it.”
“I know.”
“You cannot use Claire.”
“I know.”
“You cannot send gifts.”
“I know.”
“You cannot make illness a reason.”
Beth closed her eyes.
“That one is harder.”
“Why?”
“Because illness is the one thing nobody argues with.”
I thought of Rose’s red cheek.
It’ll be gone by morning.
Beth had spent years believing visible suffering earned authority.
Pain as leverage.
Fear as leverage.
Illness as leverage.
Money as leverage.
“What would happen if you were sick and Rose still said no?”
Beth whispered:
“I would have to live with it.”
“Yes.”
Tears moved down her face.
“I don’t know if I can.”
“That is what therapy is for.”
For once, the sentence did not sound dismissive.
It sounded true.
We ended after fifty minutes.
Beth asked:
“Can I hug you?”
“No.”
She looked hurt.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
That was the most important thing she did in the room.
Not cry.
Not confess.
Not explain her childhood.
May you like
She heard no.
And nothing happened.
