A Mother's Purpose

She stared into the coffin with dead eyes. Its polished rosewood mocked the somber funeral
home and the heavy silk of her black Morticia dress. Laura had been meticulous about the
casket; today was the final viewing. She had arrived with her husband, Bennett, but left him in
the manager’s office to settle the paperwork. Since the death of Claire, Laura had been a void. Aside from a single, cold tear during the wake,
she remained the daunting matriarch, chin up, shoulders high, ruling her servants and her
husband with an iron silence.
As her hand stroked the wood, a rush of pride surged through her. She had finally proven her
point to the cruel aunt who had raised her. Three children gone. All within a single year.
No one dared cross Laura. Her conversation with Aunt Wade played on a loop in her mind, a
haunting accompaniment to the memory of using the electric pliers to pluck out her little
daughter’s eyes.
"You’ve grown soft, Laura," her aunt had spat three years ago. "Even your staff no longer fear
you."
Bennett still believed the lie. He wept for a "freak accident," believing Claire had been
electrocuted by a faulty wire in the nursery. He didn't know the electricity had been a tool, not a
tragedy. The first child had been harder, holding her eldest’s head beneath the scalding
bathwater. But to prove her aunt wrong, Laura had found her life’s purpose in the transition from
mother to monster.
"Darling, it is done," Bennett said, striding in.
When they returned home, the mansion was unnervingly dark. Not even the staff quarters
showed a flicker of light. Bennett was trying to be extra attentive; he spent most days hiding in
his art studio to escape her icy aura, but tonight he wanted to mourn together.
He was surprised to find the table set with his favorite dishes and no servants in sight.
Expressionless, Laura ushered him to his seat.
"Darling, you didn't have to," Bennett said, shedding his jacket. "We are both mourning our
princess."
"Sit, my love. I will bathe and join you soon."
She walked into their magnificent bedroom and pulled out the bottle of cyanide Beau, her faithful
servant, had procured. She told herself she loved her family so dearly she was taking them out
of this cruel world, a lie that served her dopamine hit.
She tossed the empty bottle into the fireplace. A guttural wail erupted from the dining room.
Laura smiled. The execution was perfect.
She changed into a satin nightdress, poured a glass of cognac, and stepped into the hall. The
air was thick with Beau’s sandalwood perfume. In the dining room, Bennett was already on the
floor, convulsing in a pool of blood.
Beau rose from the far end of the table and strode toward her. He sank to his knees at the edge
of the red puddle and kissed her feet.
"Drink," she commanded.
And he did.