She has many regrets, yet just one prevents her from sleeping. When the new millennium was fast approaching, and jeans were getting lower by the day, Margaret was not at her mother's funeral. According to Oscar and her new mobile device, it was a cheerful affair, with most of the few attendees wearing colourful clothing to commemorate the “bright smile” her mother possessed. Margaret is sure this was an exaggeration; her mother was not in the habit of smiling, even before Margaret’s father died. 

The ceremony was held in a high-ceilinged church, which emphasised the meagre number of mourners. Before the short wooden coffin, the priest mumbled a hasty speech, as even he was eager to get to the canapés and crustless sandwiches arranged on a table in the small side room. 

Of course, Margaret heard this account second-hand. Back then, she was too angry at her mother to fully process her death, or even acknowledge it. Oh, how she wishes she wasn’t as stubborn, as cold, as distant. Maybe then she could’ve forgiven herself for what she did next.

She opens her eyes to the sight of the water-stained panels on the ceiling, and the shock of sudden, dark nighttime. Self-pity had been lengthening each breath, but time had precipitously gained speed with the rising moon. It should have been obvious to Margaret that this cruel God would not allow her one final sunset before her very timely death. The nurse returns, still maintaining that reaper’s smile. “How are you feeling, doll?” she chirps, oblivious to Margaret’s dagger eyes. 

“Fine.” Her voice is hoarser than she expects it to sound, and deeper.

“Can I help you with anything at all?” Margaret does not reply; she is finally asleep.