The Silence of Estrangement

Maria is only 73, yet she carries the weariness of someone twenty years older. Lying in her hospital bed, she waits—unsure of what comes next—knowing she can no longer live alone. Widowed from a fiery past, she grieves over her estrangement from her son and daughter.

No one has come to her side. What surrounds her is not only the silence of the room, but the silence of distance—a heavy mix of sorrow and a sense of having failed.

I cannot help but feel that her grief over this rupture is too often minimized, as if acknowledging it would expose the devastation within her family system. Yet to me, her pain is unmistakable. She feels the weight of that estrangement with every breath, every moment.