She felt compelled to pick up the pencil. When she did, it started to quiver in her hand, as if trying to get away. She had no right to touch it. It belonged to Jason, even if he'd been laid to rest only a few hours ago.
Over the years she'd watched him scribble secret notes in that big leather notebook of his, where he kept track of everything, especially who owed him what.
Somewhere in the big book there was her name, too. She owed him her life. That's what he'd made her write and sign in her own frozen hand, her trembling hand that still had dirt under the fingernails. Rosie remembered smudging the white page with the mud on her hand, but Jason said it was better like that, so she would never forget the grave that waited for her at the back of the garden. For he never covered the grave he'd dug for her. Just in case she ever took into her head to try and leave.
The living room was still strewn with paper plates and empty glasses from Jason's wake. The boys were off, seeing their uncle to the airport. She was alone in the house and she was free. Twenty-five years ago she'd dreamed of this day, of running for freedom and starting anew, but now the prospect was so overwhelming her feet buckled and she sat down. In his armchair. See how you like this, Jason!
She wondered if Jason had ever cared for her, maybe just a little bit? Not much, probably, there wasn't much place for love in his heart. Even the boys, he didn't love them as much as he owned them. Their whole purpose on earth was to make him proud and carry on his name.
Rosie doubted he'd ever loved his wife, Grace, whose framed picture still watched over the room. She'd only met her when Grace was already ill and drugged up to the nose to keep the pain away, so there really was no way to tell if they'd been happy together, like Jason liked to say. As for the kids, they were too young when their mother died to even remember her.
“Did you hear that Mike called the company president an asshole?" he said. Rosie did not even raise her head from the book she was reading, as she knew James did not expect an answer from her. Just like his father. Nobody in that house had ever asked for her opinion.
She could not help feeling worried for Michael. He was the nicest of the whole lot of Trudeau men and she'd always hoped he'd get a better life away from this miserable farm. Yet, he was just as pig-headed as the rest of them and with that attitude he had little chance of making it in the outside world. Now, if Mike lost his job he'd be back here, where James could carry on with the twisted mind games he'd learned from his father.
On the other hand, Rosie missed Michael, whom she had raised as her own since he was two. Not that she had a choice. Not after that night, a month after Grace's death, when she approached the subject of Jason making other arrangements for the boys' care as she'd been offered another job. She'd never seen Jason so mad before. Or since. He flew in such a rage and shouted so loud that he woke the children sleeping upstairs and they started to cry. She remembered his strong hands around her neck, his bloodshot eyes, his heavy breath on her cheek as he lay on top of her, right there on the living room floor. The carpet where he had raped her was still there. She never fought him after that night, when he dragged her to the back of the garden and started digging her grave. She was cold, her whole body hurt, but that was nothing compared to what followed when he pushed her into the grave and started shoving dirt over her. He threw mud in her face and it got into her screaming mouth and she started to choke. That's when she promised she'd never leave.
When it became clear Michael was not coming back after all, Rosie decided to leave. Nobody needed her there anyway. And seeing James becoming more and more like his father, cold and arrogant, filled her with a sense of uselessness. After all she'd done for the boys, all the love she'd given them, all the kindness she had tried to bring into their lives, it had all been for nothing. True to his nature, James was outraged when he heard Rosie was leaving.
'Maintenance is required, clearly', he said through gritted teeth. 'Go fetch the shovel, that grave of yours needs refreshing'. The grave was still there, very shallow now and overgrown with weeds, but over the years Jason had seen to it that it never filled up. 'Just in case'.
She didn't know if the boy had it in him to do just like his father, but she didn't want to challenge him. Not for her sake, she didn't care much if she lived or died, but for him. James was her boy, whether she liked it or not. Whether he liked it or not.
Something finally snapped in her. All the years of being the submissive, faceless servant and lover and mother in that damn house had filled her with too much anger. She'd earned her place in that house and she deserved respect. For better or for worse, she was their mother. She won't be treated like that anymore. It was only seeing the shock in James' face that she realized she'd been saying all those things out loud.
They both cried that night. James more than her. All the things that he knew, but had never thought about properly. All her suffering, the sacrifices she had made. They talked into the early hours, until there were no more tears, and then they found themselves reminiscing about the old days and Jason. They even laughed, for some of the days had been good. Many of them, actually.
Rosie never moved out. How could she know that her boy was thinking about getting married? She was ready to be a grandmother. It will be wonderful to have little ones running around the house again. She'll have James fill up the grave, however, he wouldn't want his kids falling in that hole.
Story written for 
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