Death Child

I’ve always been the death child for both of my parents. I’ve known since a very early age that they both want to be cremated. Whenever there is a story on the news about some breakthrough in dementia or a family fighting over maintaining life support for a vegetable, the parent watching would turn to me and let me know that I am never to let that happen to them. I’ve got a pillow ready.

I was under the impression that they were the sick ones. They had two children and had designated one as the living will. Maybe they misinterpreted the term. Perhaps they had raised a child strictly to take care of things once they died and the second child was a happy bonus; a life child, or something.

I now have a family of my own with a partner and a daughter. She has designated me as her death parent. Every time we drive by a cemetery, she lets me know that she wants to be buried. She tells me over and over again that she is sad that I will die. I’ve asked my partner; she doesn’t have these conversations with him. Just with her death parent.

I am just essentially morbid. I bring the death talk out of people. So, if you see me on the street later, feel free to come on over and we’ll draw up those living directives you’ve been putting off. My treat.

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