Fictional Writing- A Death Certificate

A Death Certificate

Mama and Father told me that I was to be a big sister shortly after my 7th birthday. I instantly lit up, all exhaustion post-Christmas and birthday forgotten about as I twirled around the discarded wrappings and mess in my bare feet. I did not allow them one word in, the way my excitement shined. All of the day’s gifts were forgotten under tip toes, silken hair bows from Sears were tangled and tiny treats covered in wax paper were squished. 

Father gave Mama a look, a conversation had between his stern gaze and her weary eyes. She had known telling me before bed would rile me up Nanny, my nurse, was still on Christmas vacation, so it was Mama’s responsibility to prepare me for bed while Father had a tonic and cigar. He stepped out of the room without my notice, and Mama clasped a firm hand on my shoulders, cold fingers forcing me to stop and sit, sinking to the carpet.

“Anne, do not make me regret telling you tonight,” she said. Mama’s voice was low, somehow soft and harsh at one time.

“I’m sorry Mama,” I hung my head, easily chastised. “I’m wonderfully excited. Having a little sister will mean that I can show her things,” I hummed, folding my hands on my knees. “I can show her how to dress nice for church, and help her do her hair.”

Mama laughed, smile breaking her stern features. “We don’t know if you will have a baby sister or baby brother yet, Anne.”

My nose wrinkled, imagining having a baby brother, of all things. “But, why not?”

Mama rose from the cushioned couch, hips creaking as she eased herself to stand. “God waits to tell mothers and fathers if they will have a boy or a girl. It is one of His wonderful surprises,” she paused, and ushered a hand to me. “Come along dear, we should wash you up before bed.”