Vogel was far from a damsel in distress at this point. She knew the inevitable, knew the consequences of her actions, from the birth of Oliver to the birth of Dexter, a guinea pig turned guard dog. This is the end for her, the denouement. It is best she ends it gracefully.
She has breakfast with her son, lets him talk, laugh, joke, anything to ease her trek to her death. She knows how easy it could be, to take her fork and impale it into Oliver's eye. How simple it could be to inject him with enough potassium cyanide to kill a full-grown elephant and save countless lives, including her own. She knows how long it could take to choke Oliver with her own expensive wristwatch if she tried hard enough.
But she doesn't; she smiles and offers to wash the plates and wipe away the jam and crust that accumulated on the side of Oliver's mouth.
In good motherly fashion.
She ignores Dexter not because she's blind, but because she knows it's the honorable thing to do. To no longer put Dexter in danger; make him the danger.
Vogel is no damsel in distress, no victim as she stares at Dexter in the final minutes of her life that's bleeding into her expensive carpet.
She dies a martyr that spent time with her lovely baby boys. Oh how they make her proud.
