Fiction

The Final Act

For years Nanna had told me that she wanted to die in her sleep, peacefully. “I doan’a vant to be a burrden,” she’d said. Back then, I thought she might get her wish: she had survived the war in Europe only to endure a toxic, sixty-year marriage with my grandfather. Surely the God she loved would be merciful? The mild forgetfulness and tendency to repeat things could have just been symptomatic of growing old. Whenever Nanna realised she was doing this, she would slap her forehead, chastising herself, “Schtoopid, schtoopid.” As her dentures became increasingly uncomfortable, her head would drop…

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