After my husband’s funeral, my son drove me to a forest road and said, «This is your place now.»
I didnt cry when my husband died. Not because I didnt love himwed been together forty-two years, through thick and thin, through sickness and the few good times we had. I didnt cry because the tears stuck somewhere deep inside, like a stone in my throat. They wouldnt comenot at the graveside, not later when the neighbour brought over a casserole and said, «Youll be alright, love.» I nodded, smiled politely, and shut the door.
Andrewmy sonstood beside me at the funeral. Tall, well-built, in an expensive black suit that probably cost more than my pension for six months. He held my elbow, like a dutiful son should, the way they teach you in proper families. But his hand was cold. Not from the weatherfrom the meaning behind it. Like he wasnt holding his mother, just an obligation. A burden.
At the wake, he gave speeches. Spoke well, loud, with pauses and gestures. Everyone nodded, praised him. «What a son! Such a fine man!» I sat in the corner and watched him. His faceso familiar, yet so strange. His eyes were mine. His nose, his fathers. His smilesomeone elses. The smile of a man whod stopped being my boy long ago.
Three days after the funeral, he came to my house. I was making coffeemy husband always liked it strong in the mornings, with milk, no sugar. Old habits linger. Andrew sat at the kitchen table, slid the car keys and my passport toward me.
«Mum,» he said, «Ive thought it through. Youd be better off in a care home. In the countryside. Quiet, peaceful, good care. Fresh air, people your age. No need to be alone in this big house. You saw how Dad was at the end You might»
He didnt finish. But I understood. He meant, «You might die soon.» Or rather, «You *should* die soon. So youre not in the way.»
I stayed silent. Drank my coffee. Scalding hot, burning my lips, but I drank it. So I wouldnt shake. Wouldnt scream. Wouldnt throw the cup at him.
«The house» he started, «the business theyre mine now. Dad transferred everything to me a year ago. You know how he wasalways thinking ahead. Didnt want any arguments.»
I knew. I knew my husband had put everything in Andrews name. Never asked me. I didnt protest. Thought, «Fine. As long as my son stays close. As long as he cares.» Stupid, naive old woman.
«You understand,» he went on, «its not your place anymore. You cant manage alone. Youre tired. Youre old.»
That last word, he said softly. Almost kindly. Like stating a diagnosis. Like I was a broken thing that needed throwing out.
«When?» I asked.
He mustve expected tears, shouting, threats. I just said, «When?»
«Tomorrow,» he replied. «Morning. Ill pick you up. Its all arranged. You dont even need to packtheyve got everything there. Just take the essentials. And dont worry. Ill visit. Of course.»
He was lying. I knew he wouldnt. Not once.
The next morning, he pulled up in his Mercedes. I came out with a suitcase. Insidea photo of my husband, my passport, the little money Id secretly saved over years, and a notebook of recipes. The ones hed loved most.
Andrew popped the boot, tossed my case in like a sack of potatoes. Then opened the car door. I sat in the back. He didnt say, «Lets go.» Just started the engine and drove off.
We didnt speak. The city faded behind us. Then the suburbs. Then woods. The road narrowed, turned to dirt, full of potholes. I stared out the window. Trees. Silence. Birds. Beauty. And terror.
«Andrew,» I said, «where exactly is this care home?»
He didnt answer at first. Then, over his shoulder: «Youll see.»
Twenty minutes later, he turned onto a narrow forest track. The car lurched over roots. I gripped the door handle. My heart pounded. Not from the bumpsfrom dread.
He stopped the car. Got out. Opened my door. I stepped onto the dirt. No buildings. No fences. Just trees. Thick, dark, silent.
«Here,» he said. «Your place.»
I looked around. At him. At his face. Calm. Almost pleased.
«What do you mean, *my place*?» I asked.
«Exactly that,» he said. «You know. Its better here. Quiet. Peaceful. No one to bother you.»
He set down a bag. Food for a couple of days. After that well, youre a clever woman. Youll figure it out.
I froze. White noise in my head. Like someone had muted the world.
«Youre leaving me? Here? In the woods?»
He shrugged.
«Not leaving. Just letting go. Youll be gone soon anyway. What do you need the house for? The city? Youre in my way. Honestly. Youre a reminder. Of things Im supposed to feel. And I dont want to. Ive got my own life. A wife, kids they dont want a grandmother around. Especially not a tired one.»
He said it so easily. Like reading a shopping list.
«Andrew» I whispered. «Im your mother.»
«Were,» he corrected. «Now youre a burden. Sorry. But this is best for everyone.»
He got in the car. Started the engine. I grabbed the door handle.
«Andrew! Wait! IllIll give it all back! The house, the money, everything! Just dont leave me here!»
He hit the gas. The car jerked forward. I fell. My knee hit a rock. I screamed. Crawled after the car. He didnt look back.
I sat on the ground. Held my knee. Blood soaked through my tights. The pain was there. But deeper. Where my heart used to beat.
I opened the bag. Water, sandwiches, a chocolate bar. Andrew mustve decided I shouldnt die *right* away. So his conscience wouldnt sting. So he could say, «I gave her a chance.»
I ate the chocolate. Drank the water. Stood up. Looked around.
Trees. Nothing but trees. No road. No path. Just animal tracks. And silence. So thick it rang in my ears.
I walked. Just walked. No direction. Toward a road, maybe. A river. Death. I didnt care.
An hour later, I found a stream. Clear, shallow. Drank from my hands. Washed my face. Stared at my reflection. Grey hair. Wrinkles. Empty eyes. Like no one was left inside.
*Youre old*, hed said.
Yes. But not dead.
I spent the night under a pine tree. Curled up. Covered with my coat. Shakingnot from cold, from rage. From hurt.
I thought of my husband. How he laughed. Made me mint tea when I was ill. Held my hand when I was scared. Said, *Youre my rock*. Now I was nothing. Discarded. Trash.
But I wouldnt die. Not here. Not like this.
At dawn, I walked. All day. No purpose. Just moving. To keep from sitting. From breaking.
On the third day, I found a road. Dirt, not tarmac. But people came here. I followed it.
An hour later, a lorry stopped. The drivera man about fifty, kind-faced.
«Where to, love?» he asked.
I didnt know. Said the first thing that came to mind.
«To the city. My sons.»
He nodded. Opened the door.
«Hop in.»
I stayed silent the whole ride. So did he. Just turned on the radio. An old song played. I closed my eyes. Cried. Quietly. The tears that wouldnt come for days now poured out.
He dropped me at the bus station.
«Here,» he said, handing me a bottle of water and a sandwich. «Dont worry. Itll sort itself out.»
I nodded. Thanked him. Got out.
In the city, I went to the police. Told them everything. No dramatics. No tears. Just facts.
The officer listened. Wrote it down. Shook his head.
«Without proof, theres not much we can do. He didnt hit you. Didnt threaten you. Just left you in the woods. You survived. Thats good. But its not a crime. Legally.»
I stared at him. At his uniform. At his indifferent eyes.
«So he can do it again? To someone else? And thats fine?»
«Without proofyes,» he said. «Try a solicitor. Or social services. Maybe theyll help with housing.»
I left. Stood on the street. Rain drizzled. People hurried past. No one looked at the old woman with a bag.
I went to the library. Free internet. I researched. Wrote letters. To the Crown Prosecution Service. To human rights groups. To newspapers. Blogs. Everywhere.
A week later, a local reporter called. Young. Eyes bright.
«Tell me everything. Well publish. People should know.»
I told her. No dramatics. No tears. Just facts.
The article ran three days later. Headline: *»Son Abandons Mother in Woods: This Is Your Place Now.»*
My photofrom the funeral. Grey dress. Empty eyes.
Within an hourhundreds of comments. Thousands of shares. People were outraged. Crying. Demanding justice.
The next dayAndrew called.
«Mum,» his voice shook, «what have you done?!»
«Survived,» I said.
«Youve ruined me! I lost my job! My wife left! The kids are bullied at school! Do you even care?!»
«I do,» I said. «You left me in the woods. I told the world. Fairs fair.»
«IIll come get you. Give it all back. The house. The money. Everything!»
«Too late,» I said. «I dont want your house. I want you to understand. A mother isnt trash. Old age isnt a death sentence. A person isnt a thing.»
He went quiet. Thensobbing. Real. First time in his life.
«Sorry» he whispered. «Im sorry»
«Ill forgive you,» I said. «When you come, bring flowers. Not money. Not the house. Flowers. And say, *Mum, I love you*. And Ill believe you. If you mean it.»
He came a week later. Brought tulips. Yellow. My favourite. Fell to his knees. Cried. Kissed my hands.
I watched him. His tears. His fear. His guilt.
«Get up,» I said. «Im not God. Im your mother. And I forgive you.»
Now I dont live in a care home. Or his house. I rent a small room by the sea. With a balcony. Seagulls. Sunlight.
Andrew visits every week. Brings food. Flowers. Tells me about the kids. His work. Life.
Hes changed. Or hes pretending. I dont care. I see his eyes. The fear in them. Fear of losing me again. Fear of never being forgiven.
I didnt go back. Didnt live under his roof. But I didnt shut him out. Because everyone deserves redemption. Even a son who left his mother in the woods.
Some evenings, I sit on the balcony. Watch the sea. Think of my husband. How hed be proud. Not that I survived. That I didnt turn bitter. Didnt break. Didnt become what he wantedquiet, obedient, forgotten.
Im alive. Im strong. Im a mother.
And my place isnt in the woods. Or a care home. Its where I choose.
Todayby the sea. Tomorrowmaybe the mountains. Or a new flat. With grandkids. With my son. With tulips on the windowsill.
Because Im not a thing. Not a burden. Not *old*.
Im a person. And Ive got a right to live. To love. To respect.
Even if they left me in the woods.
Even if they said, *This is your place*.
I chose another place.
And thats my right.
