I don't own Hetalia, but I am uploading this on Mother's Day. Thousands of people have probably experienced this before. One day you show up to see your dear mom, and she doesn't know who you are. It's a sad, sad thing. Even...I'm going through it at the moment (it's not as severe but it's there). Reach out a hand for her and tell her little stories of the memories you two shared. Maybe...she'd remember. (Sniff) Enjoy this little oneshot, and maybe...you might want to read this to her. Or maybe (if your mom remembers you or not) you can read her some of the fanfic you've made. My dear mom always wanted me to read her my stories. I'm going to do it today. What about you?
"Mrs. Bonnefoy, there's a call for you. It's from your son, Matt," said the nurse, stretching out a gentle hand. Mrs. Bonnefoy looked up from her covers, narrowing her dull eyes. Son…She had a son? No, it couldn't be. "Do you want to talk to him?"
"Let me." Cracking her fingers, Mrs. Bonnefoy's eyes followed the nurse as she got the phone. Handing her it, the nurse picked up the remains of Mrs. Bonnefoy's dinner, reminding her,
"Remember, before you go to sleep, tell me so I can give you your pills."
"I know. I know. Get off my case, would you?" Mrs. Bonnefoy snapped, putting the phone to her ear. Frowning, the nurse left, keeping the door ajar. Shifting her head back and forth to check if the close was clear, Mrs. Bonnefoy pulled a box of cigars from her hospital gown. Slipping a stick and lightning it with a well concealed lighter, she puffed, "Hello, Matt. It'd been better if you visited me."
A voice scratched by cigars and, probably, from yelling too much replied back. "I would've, but I'm not allowed to see you. I just wanted to…hear your voice again, mom." Mrs. Bonnefoy had no idea who this 'Matt' character was, but, hearing his voice flutter at the end made her black heart tremble. Mom? I guess he does care.
"Why you calling this late?"
There was a pause. "Do you remember that time Oliver and Al left? I was crying and you stood next to me. You said, 'Get your act together. No one's going to take your faults anymore.' I remembered looking up and seeing tears slip down your face. Do you remember that time when you picked me up from school on the first day? It was raining, but you waited outside for me."
There was another pause, with a sniff this time. "Remember when I got into that hockey accident and I had to go to the hospital to get surgery? You never left my side, even though you were tired and had to go to work. You knew I didn't have any friends, so you made me get-well cards and sent me flowers as if I did."
Hearing this 'Matt' telling her this got Mrs. Bonnefoy thinking. Had she really done those deeds? There's more to the story, she thought, hearing a quiver in her boy's voice.
"Remember when we made dinner together on Christmas Eve? The food tasted terrible, but it was fun fixing something with you. Remember when you sent me to Oliver and Al's place for Christmas 'cause you thought I'd enjoy spending it there? I still have that red shirt you gave me when I was a kid. I complained it was too big, and you said, 'You'll grow into it. Give it time.' You're right, it fits me now. I remembered coming home one night and seeing you watching TV, as usual. I asked you how your day was and you gave me this look. You didn't know me. I later found out you had Alzheimer. You were sent away, and I wasn't allowed to see you."
"Are you crying?" Mrs. Bonnefoy asked, blowing out her cigar. "Baby, are you crying?" She could hear it: Matt's heavy breathing and tight voice. It was really hurting him to say all of this.
"I visited you once. You didn't know who I was. I touched your hand and gave you a hug, but you didn't hug me back. I spooned you food and walked with you, but you didn't talk to me. I told you who you were, but you didn't believe me. 'Me, a mother? You've got the wrong lady!' That's what you told me. I left. I couldn't take it anymore. Then, just a week ago, I got a call that you were remembering things. I asked the doctor if you remembered me—"
"This is a fine tale and all, but I don't. I don't remember you. I'm sorry." Matt's words, his voice, the brief pause when his breath was taken away: Mrs. Bonnefoy just bit her lip. She'd say something wrong again. Her little "angel" nurse was always nagging her about that. "I'm sorry. I don't know who you are. You can tell me these things, but I won't know. You visited once. How could I remember? Your voice is so miserable, I want to see you. I want to see your face and tell you these things properly."
The door creaked open. Mrs. Bonnefoy turned. Standing in front of her was a tear stained blonde with a red shirt and a bouquet of rosemary blooms in his arms. A phone was in his hand and he dropped it.
"M-Mommy," he sniffed. "H-Happy Mother's D-Day."
"I don't remember," Mrs. Bonnefoy whispered, stuffing her used cigar into the box. "I'm sorry. Who are you?" Puffing out his chest, Matt recited,
"Matt Bonnefoy, son of Francisca Bonnefoy and Oliver Kirkland and younger brother of Alvin Kirkland. I am twenty eight years old, unemployed, and living with one of my friends. I love maple syrup and pancakes. I hate fried food. I'm addicted to smoking, but I'm trying to quit every day. My pet's name is Kumajirou, an artic wolf. I have a crush on this albino girl, Gillian. And…Mrs. Bonnefoy, you are my mother and I wish you the best Mother's Day a poor son can give you."