Wim Claeys

She’s turning 90, my dear mother, and she’s going blind too. Since last year, she says she’s "living in a dorm" again—at the nursing home. Her sense of humor remains intact, but she makes sure we know: the sooner she joins her collection of funeral notices, the better. Rather today than tomorrow. In fact, she repeats her wish every time I visit:

‘May I die now, manneke?’

And what does her manneke do? He gives her euthanasia as a gift for her birthday.