After my husbands funeral, my son drove me down a woodland lane and said, «This is your place now.»
I didnt cry after my husband died. Not because I hadnt loved himwed spent forty-two years together, weathering everything: poverty, illness, and the occasional joy, though honestly, the latter had been in short supply. The tears just wouldnt come, stuck somewhere deep inside like a stone in my throat. Not at the graveside, nor later, when the neighbour brought over a casserole and said, «Chin up, Margaret.» I nodded, smiled politely, and shut the door.
Andrewmy sonstood beside me at the funeral. Tall, polished, in a designer black suit that probably cost more than my pension for half a year. He held my elbow, the proper way, like they teach you in polite society. But his touch was cold. Not from the weatherfrom indifference. As if I werent his mother, just an obligation. A burden.
At the wake, he made speeches. Spoke beautifully, with dramatic pauses and grand gestures. Everyone nodded, praised him: «What a son! Such a fine man! So eloquent!» I sat in the corner and watched him. His faceso familiar, so foreign. His eyes were mine. His nose, his fathers. His smile? A strangers. The smile of someone whod stopped being my boy long ago.
Three days after the funeral, he came over. I was making coffeejust how my husband used to like it, strong, with milk, no sugar. Old habits die hard. Andrew sat at the kitchen table, slid the car keys and my passport toward me.
«Mum,» he said, «Ive thought it through. Youll be better off in a care home. In the countryside. Quiet, cosy, good care. Clean air, people your ageno need to rattle around this big house alone. You know how Dad was at the end You could»
He didnt finish. But I understood. He meant, «You could die.» Or rather, «You should die. Sooner rather than later. Out of the way.»
I stayed silent. Drank my coffee. Scalding hot. Burned my lips. But I drank it. To keep from shaking. From screaming. From throwing the mug at him.
«The house» he started, «the business theyre mine now. Dad put everything in my name a year ago. You knew, didnt you? He always thought of me first. Didnt want any disagreements.»
I did know. Knew my husband had signed everything over to our son without asking me. I hadnt protested. Thought, «Fine. As long as Andrew cares. As long as he looks after me.» Silly old fool.
«You understand,» he went on, «this place isnt right for you alone. You cant manage. Youre tired. Youre old.»
He said «old» softly. Almost kindly. Like a diagnosis. Like I was a broken appliance, ready for the tip.
«When?» I asked.
He mustve expected tears, shouts, threats. I just said, «When?»
«Tomorrow,» he replied. «Morning. Ill drive you. Its all arranged. No need to packtheyll have everything. Just take the essentials. And dont worry. Ill visit. Of course.»
He lied. I knew he wouldnt. Not once.
The next morning, he pulled up in his Mercedes. I came out with a suitcase. Inside: a photo of my husband, my passport, a bit of cash Id squirrelled away for years, and a notebook of recipes. The ones hed always loved.
Andrew popped the boot, tossed my case in like a sack of potatoes. Then opened the passenger door. I sat in the back. He didnt even say, «Ready?» Just started the engine and drove off.
We didnt speak. The city faded behind us. Then the suburbs. Then woods. The road narrowed to a dirt track, potholed and rough. I stared out the window. Trees. Silence. Birds. Beauty. Dread.
«Andrew,» I said, «where exactly is this care home?»
He didnt answer right away. Then, over his shoulder: «Youll see.»
Twenty minutes later, he turned onto a narrow forest path. The car jolted over roots. I gripped the door handle. My heart pounded. Not from the bumps. From knowing.
He stopped the car. Got out. Opened my door. I stepped onto the damp earth. No houses. No fences. Just trees. Thick, dark, wordless.
«Here,» he said. «Your place.»
I looked around. At him. At his face. Calm. Almost pleased.
«What do you mean, my place?»
«Exactly that,» he said. «You know. Its better this way. Quiet. Peaceful. No one to bother you.»
He set down a bag. Enough food for a couple of days. After that well, youre a clever woman. Youll manage.
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 a house for? A city? Youre in my way, Mum. Honestly. Youre a reminder. Of things Im supposed to feel. And I dont want to. Ive got my own life. A wife, kids they wont live with Grandma. Especially not one so worn out.»
He said it lightly. 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 sign it all over! The house, the money, everything! Just dont leave me here!»
He hit the gas. The car lurched forward. I fell. Cut my knee on a rock. Screamed. Crawled after him. 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 shouldve been.
I opened the bag. Water, sandwiches, a chocolate bar. Andrew mustve decided I shouldnt die immediately. Salve his conscience. Let him say, «I gave her a chance.»
I ate the chocolate. Drank the water. Stood up. Looked around.
Woods. Just woods. No road. No path. Only animal tracks. And silence. So thick it rang in my ears.
I walked. Just walked. No direction. Maybe toward a road. A river. Death. Didnt matter.
An hour later, I found a stream. Clear, narrow. Drank from my hands. Washed my face. Stared at my reflection. Grey hair. Wrinkles. Empty eyes. Like no one was home.
«Youre old,» hed said.
Yes. But not dead.
That night, I slept under a pine tree. Curled up. Covered with my coat. Shakingnot from cold, but rage. Hurt. Betrayal.
I thought of my husband. His laugh. How hed make mint tea when I was ill. How hed hold my hand when I was scared. How hed say, «Youre my rock.» Now? I was nobody. Discarded. Rubbish.
But I wouldnt die. Not here. Not like this.
At dawn, I walked on. All day. No purpose. Just moving. To keep from sitting. From going mad.
On the third day, I found a track. Not tarmac. Dirt. But a road. People came here. I followed it.
An hour latera lorry. Pulled over. The driver, a man in his fifties with kind eyes.
«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 way. 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 flowed like a river.
He dropped me at the bus station.
«Here,» he said, handing me a bottle of water and a sandwich. «Dont fret. Itll sort itself out.»
I nodded. Thanked him. Got out.
In town, I went to the police. Told them everything. No embellishment. No tears. Just facts.
The officer listened. Took notes. Shook his head.
«Without proof, theres little 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. Not legally.»
I stared at his uniform. His indifferent eyes.
«So he could do it again? To someone else? And nothing would happen?»
«No proof, no crime,» he said. «Try a solicitor. Or social services. Might help with housing.»
I walked out. Stood in the street. A light rain started. People hurried past. No one glanced at the old woman with a bag.
I went to the library. Free internet. Researched. Learned. Wrote letters. To the Crown Prosecution Service. Human rights groups. The press. Blogs. Everywhere.
A week later, the local paper called. A journalist. Young. Eyes bright.
«Margaret, tell us everything. Well publish. People should know.»
I did. No embellishment. 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 hourshundreds of comments. Thousands of shares. Outrage. Tears. Demands for justice.
The next dayAndrew called.
«Mum,» his voice shook, «what have you done?!»
«Lived,» I said.
«Youre ruining me! I lost my job! My wife left! The kids are bullied at school! Do you realise what youve done?!»
«I do,» I said. «You left me in the woods. I told the world. Fairs fair.»
«IIll come. Take you back. Give you the house. The money. Everything!»
«Too late,» I said. «I dont want your house. I want you to understand. A mother isnt rubbish. Old age isnt a death sentence. A person isnt a thing.»
Silence. Thensobs. Real ones. First in his life.
«Forgive me» he whispered.
«I will,» I said. «When you visit, 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. Yellow tulipsmy favourite. Knelt. Cried. Kissed my hands.
I watched him. His tears. His fear. His remorse.
«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 little room by the sea. With a balcony. Seagulls. Sunlight.
Andrew visits weekly. Brings food. Flowers. Talks about the kids. Work. Life.
Hes changed. Or pretends to. Doesnt matter. I see his eyes. The fear there. Fear of losing me again. Fear of never being forgiven.
I didnt go back. Didnt share his roof. But I didnt cast him out. Because everyone deserves redemption. Even a son who left his mother in the woods.
Sometimes, at dusk, I step onto the balcony. Watch the sea. Think of my husband. How hed be proud. Not that I survived. But that I didnt harden. Didnt break. Didnt become what Andrew 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 grandchildren. With my son. With tulips on the windowsill.
Because Im not a thing. Not a burden. Not «old.»
Im a person. And I have the right to live. To love. To respect.
Even if I was left in the woods.
Even if they said, «This is your place.»
I chose another place.
And thats my right.
