short sad story

Mother's Neglect Leads to Tragedy

When I look back on my childhood, the one memory that never fades is the storm. It was a tempest of tragic proportions, but not because of the thunder or the howling winds. It was tragic because of what it stole from me.

My mother died when I was a child, a mere eight years old. She died because of my father's neglect towards her, and it's a burden I've carried with me all my life. There was a storm that fateful evening, a dark, brooding tempest that swept through our small town like a harbinger of doom.

The rain came down in sheets, drenching everything in its path. Lightning illuminated the sky in blinding flashes, and thunder roared like a furious god. My mother was a fragile soul, her health always delicate. And that night, as the rain lashed against the windows and the wind rattled the doors, she grew weaker by the minute.

My father, a stern man who rarely showed his emotions, was too preoccupied with his work to notice her worsening condition. He toiled in the study, poring over documents and computer screens, as my mother sat alone in the living room, clutching a blanket to her chest.

I watched her from the hallway, her pale face illuminated by the soft glow of the lamp. She looked at me with eyes that spoke of pain, her lips forming a weak smile as if to reassure me. I had always been a daddy's boy, and he was the one I looked up to. But that night, I felt a different kind of loyalty tugging at my heart.

As the storm raged on, I mustered the courage to approach my father. I entered his study, the words trembling on my lips. "Daddy," I stammered, "Mommy doesn't look well. Maybe we should take her to the hospital."

My father, engrossed in his work, hardly looked up. "She's fine, son. It's just a little cold. Don't worry about it."

But I did worry, and as the storm raged on, so did my mother's condition. Her coughing grew more frequent, her breaths more labored. She begged my father to take her inside, out of the cold and the relentless rain, but he remained indifferent to her pleas. "I'm busy, Helen," he snapped. "Can't you see that?"

The hours passed, and my mother's strength waned. She sat there, a frail figure, shivering in the unrelenting storm. I watched her, feeling utterly helpless, torn between the love for my mother and the admiration I had for my father. But that night, it was my mother who needed me.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I approached her. "Mommy, I'll get you a blanket," I said, my voice quivering. She reached out and ruffled my hair, her touch a feeble caress of love.

It was during that moment that my father's cold face turned soft for a second. He glanced at my mother, saw the pain etched in her face, and finally relented. "Alright, Helen," he said, his voice filled with guilt, "let's get you inside."

We moved her to the bedroom, but it was too late. The storm had taken its toll on her fragile frame. My mother's breathing became shallow, and her skin grew cold. Panic seized my father, and he called for an ambulance, but by the time it arrived, my mother had already slipped away.

I watched as the paramedics tried to revive her, their efforts in vain. I saw the cold, lifeless face of the woman who had given me life, the woman who had smiled at me moments before, now void of all expression.

My father stood there, his face a mask of anguish. It was in that moment that he understood the gravity of his neglect, the enormity of his indifference. He had let the storm of his ambition blind him to the storm that raged within our home.

The storm eventually subsided, leaving behind a trail of devastation in its wake. The rain stopped, the thunder faded, and the world outside began to heal. But within the walls of our home, the wounds remained, deeper than any storm could ever cause.

My mother's death could have been prevented if my father had just cared more for her, if he had taken her inside when she needed him the most. The storm may have passed, but the tempest in my heart, the grief and the regret, remained. It was a storm that would never truly fade away, a storm that I carry with me to this day.

don't take common fever lightly,
keep taking care of your health so that people around us don't worry about us.