The scotch is a habit first, a little grease to make the dry fuck of the day seem easier––god knows Kurt's not going to do it for her. Around the time Charles tells her she's never going to be a grandmother (that she was, of course, an unfit mother, though he doesn't say it in so many words; she's ruined his life, she was a terrible mother and she's ruined his life), she realizes it's a crutch, but by then she seems to need one.
"I hate you!" Raven shrieks, slamming her bedroom door; once Sharon would have followed her––she never knew what to say but she'd try, because the neighbors and the help would talk, yes, but––well, anyway, what does it matter (Raven's never loved her anyway, she reasons; Sharon supposes she'll be glad to have been right about her adopted parent), the sooner she dies the better off they'll all be, money's always been her most enticing asset.
Maybe they can scatter her ashes to the sea. She'd like that, she thinks (for the first time unfettered by crinoline and pumps, the faceless responsibility of feminine wealth; she imagines the water like ink, a cooling, stained black, dissolving her); she'll remember to put it in the will tomorrow, when she adds Erik's name.
(I tried to be good, the note says)