text: (WP) A Bitter Feud She didn’t know just how many times she’d told her children no. To hell with the life-saving, advanced medicine and drugs they were always trying to push into her body. Why didn’t everyone understand how tired she was? This was not a life, not even a pale imitation of it. Stuck in a hospital bed, plugged in to machines, unable to hold down more than a few bites of food. Evelyn wouldn’t have wished this life on her worse enemies, and there had been many. But even now, close to death, she couldn’t make herself regret it. That wasn’t her style. Bitterness crested in her throat, as sour and familiar as bile. Was it so hard to understand, wanting to move on? Evelyn was broken out of her angry thoughts by the arrival of her nurse, Holly, with someone following in her wake. “Miss Eve,” Holly said, smiling warmly, “You have a visitor today!” Evelyn had to resist pulling her face into a scowl; she *hated* being called Eve, and what was worse, Holly knew it. It brought back unpleasant memories. But perhaps the nurse was torturing her. Some people got their kicks by being shitty to the infirm and elderly. Holly smiled and checked her vitals, then left her with her visitor. It was Evelyn’s only son, Charles, and she shook her head before he even opened his mouth. “I said no, and that isn’t going change any time soon, Charles. It’s not when you were little, when you could flash those dimples at me and get whatever you want--” This diatribe was followed by a harsh, wracking coughing fit, and she covered her mouth, ignoring the tiny dots of red that covered her palm. “If you’re not careful, Ma, you’re going to hurt yourself, going on like that,” Her son replied, mildly enough, but his eyes, dark like hers, flashed with silent anger and hurt. “I brought you lunch.” *What’s the use if I’m just going to throw it all up in an hour, if I’m lucky?* But she didn’t say anything; she was sure that he could see what she was thinking, anyway. Without another word, Charles walked to the chair that was next to Evelyn’s bed and sat down. He took out a picnic basket, and then put paper plates in front of them, along with paper cups, which he filled with sweet, tart apple cider. “Why are you doing this, Charles?” “You’re our mother and we love you,” Charles said, still mildly. “We don’t want you to die--” “You and your sisters are so foolish,” Evelyn snapped, interrupting him, watching as he divided the food into two equal portions: half a ham sandwich, slathered with mustard and garnished with bright tomatoes and Swiss cheese, and a bowl of soup, her favorite: borscht, made from her own recipe. To anyone else, this would’ve looked like a gesture of goodwill, of love. But Evelyn knew better. It was a bribe from her own children, to stay in this miserable existence.