Everything about her life is immaculately clean and tidy; apart from her two boys.
She lives a ‘Mary Kondo’ existence, disturbed only by her sons’ filthy sportswear, snotty noses and
those grubby fingerprints clinging to door handles.
Even their conception had been clinical; no need for the mess of a man in her life.
Picking up the teaspoon, that has been recklessly left next to the sink, she mutters to herself,
‘they’ll be the death of me.’
On a breezy, cold afternoon, the boys quietly scatter the damp soil onto her dark oak coffin.
In unison, as if rehearsed, both boys wipe their dirty hands on the back of their trousers.
Originally published: 101 Words
