HER COLD HEART

I cared for her when I needed to care for myself. Every sacrifice, every late night spent mending her ripped heart while my own grew threadbare, every stolen moment of play when my body screamed for rest – it was all for her. I carried her, even though I was weakened by pain, a pain that gnawed at me, leaving me empty. I remember the way she clung to me, her tiny hands grasping my neck as I navigated crowded markets, ignoring the ache in my back.

I fed her and went to bed hungry. My stomach would rumble as I watched her devour the meager portion of stew, her face smeared with gravy. I told myself I wasn’t hungry, that I’d already eaten. Guilt would twist in my gut, a bitter companion to the gnawing emptiness. And I clothed her as I stood bare and shivering. The warmest coat was always hers, even if it meant facing the winter winds with only a thin shawl to protect me.

Now, decades later, the winter was inside me. It had settled deep in my bones, a relentless chill that no blanket could dispel. She was here, beside my deathbed, her presence a stark contrast to the quiet peace I craved. She sat stiffly, her expensive dress rustling with each movement. Her perfectly painted nails tapped impatiently on the wooden armrest.

There was no sign of sorrow in her eyes, no hint of the affection I had poured into her like water into parched earth. Only a cold, calculating glint.

Finally, she spoke, her voice devoid of emotion. “What did you leave me?”

The question hung in the air, thick and heavy like the smell of death. A lifetime of unspoken love, of selfless devotion, was reduced to this one, grasping query. My heart, already weakened, gave a painful lurch.

What did I leave her? I left her a childhood filled with laughter, even if it was purchased with my tears. I left her a home, however humble, filled with the warmth of my love. I left her a legacy of sacrifice, though she seemed determined to ignore it.

But those were things that couldn’t be quantified, couldn’t be tallied in a ledger. They were things that lived within the heart, and apparently, her heart was a barren landscape.

I wanted to tell her about the poems I used to write her, about the dreams I had for our future, and about the sheer, unwavering love that had fueled my every action. But the words caught in my throat, trapped by a wave of exhaustion and a profound sense of disappointment.

Instead, I simply closed my eyes. Let her search. Let her rummage through my meager belongings. Let her find the worn books and the faded photographs. Maybe, amid her desperate search for material wealth, she would stumble upon something far more valuable – a flicker of the love I had so freely given, a spark of the kindness I had tried to instill.

But even as I drifted towards the darkness, I knew, with a chilling certainty, that she wouldn’t. The only inheritance she sought was the kind that could be counted, measured, and spent. And just as I began to blink out of existence, I saw the true face of this world.