After the funeral, my son drove me down a winding forest lane and said, «This is where you belong.»
I hadnt wept for my husband. Not because I hadnt loved himwed shared forty-two years, weathered poverty, illness, and what few joys life had spared us. The tears lodged deep inside me like a stone in the throat, refusing to fallnot at the graveside, not later when the neighbour brought a casserole and murmured, «Stay strong, Margaret.» I nodded, smiled politely, and shut the door.
Davidmy sonstood beside me at the funeral. Tall, polished, in a black suit that likely cost more than my pension for half a year. He held my elbow, as was proper, as good families do. But his grip was cold. Not from the chillfrom indifference. As if I were a chore, not his mother.
At the wake, he gave speeches. Flawless, measured, met with murmurs of, «What a fine man. So eloquent.» I sat in the corner and watched himhis face so familiar, so foreign. My eyes. His fathers nose. A smile that didnt belong to either of us.
Three days later, he arrived unannounced. I was brewing teamy husband had always taken his strong, no sugar. Old habits linger. David placed his car keys and my passport on the table.
«Mum,» he said, «Ive arranged a care home for you. In the countryside. Quiet, peaceful. Youll be looked after. No more loneliness in that empty flat.»
He didnt finish, but I understood. He meant, *You might die soon anyway.* Or rather, *You should. Quietly. Out of the way.*
I sipped my tea. Burning my lips. Anything to keep from trembling.
«The flat,» he continued, «the investmentstheyre mine now. Dad transferred everything last year. You knew he always put me first.»
I had known. Id said nothing, foolishly believing my son would care for me in return. Naïve old fool.
«Youll be happier there,» he said gently. «Youre… tired. Youre… old.»
The last word hung in the air like a diagnosis. Like I was broken, ready for disposal.
«When?» I asked.
Hed expected tears. Screams. Instead, I asked, *When?*
«Tomorrow,» he said. «No need to packeverythings provided.»
He lied. I knew he wouldnt visit. Not once.
Morning came. His Mercedes purred outside. I emerged with a single suitcasea photo of my husband, my passport, a stash of savings hidden for years, and a notebook of recipes hed loved.
David tossed the case into the boot like a sack of potatoes. I climbed into the backseat. No words. The city faded, then the suburbs, then only trees. The road narrowed to dirt and ruts. My heart poundednot from the bumps, but from dread.
«David,» I asked, «where exactly is this place?»
«Soon,» was all he said.
Twenty minutes later, he turned onto a forgotten path. The car jolted over roots. Then, stillness. He stepped out, opened my door.
«Here,» he said. «Your place.»
Nothing but woods. No buildings, no fences. Just silence.
«What do you mean?» I whispered.
«Just what I said. Youll be at peace here.» He set down a bagenough food for two days. After that? «Youre clever. Youll manage.»
My mind emptied. White noise.
«Youre leaving me? Here?»
He shrugged. «Youll be gone soon anyway. Why cling to the flat? Why burden me? My wife, the kidsthey dont want a grandmother underfoot. Especially not… a tired one.»
Casual. Like discussing the weather.
«David» I choked. «Im your *mother*.»
«You *were*,» he corrected. «Now youre a weight. Its better this way.»
The engine roared. I grabbed the door handle. «Wait! Take it allthe flat, the money! Just dont leave me!»
The car lurched forward. I fell, knee splitting on a rock. I screamed. Crawled. He never looked back.
I sat bleeding. Not from the cutfrom the hollow where my heart had been.
The bag held water, sandwiches, a chocolate bar. A token chance. So his conscience could whisper, *I gave her a choice.*
I ate the chocolate. Walked. No path. No people. Just animal tracks and deafening quiet.
By dusk, I found a stream. Drank from my palms. My reflection stared backgrey hair, hollow eyes.
*»Youre old,»* hed said.
True. But not dead.
I slept beneath a pine, shakingnot from cold, but rage.
I thought of my husband. His laughter. The mint tea hed brew when I was ill. How hed say, *»Youre my anchor.»* Now I was flotsam. Discarded.
But I refused to die. Not here. Not like this.
Morning came. I walked. No destination. Just motion.
On the third day, a dirt road. Then a lorry. The drivera kind-faced manleaned out.
«Where to, love?»
«To town,» I said. «To my son.»
He nodded, turned up the radio. I cried silently. Tears delayed for days.
At the station, he handed me a water bottle. «Itll be alright.»
The police station was next. I told my story. Dry-eyed.
«No crime here,» the officer sighed. «He didnt hurt you. Just… left you. You survived. Thats something.»
«So he can do it again?»
«Without proofyes.»
I left. Rain drizzled. No one glanced at the old woman with a suitcase.
The library had free internet. I learned. Wrote. To newspapers. To MPs. To anyone whod listen.
A week later, a journalist called. «Tell me everything. People should know.»
The headline ran: *»Son Abandons Mother in Woods: ‘This is Where You Belong.'»*
My photohollow-eyed in a grey dress.
Comments flooded in. Outrage. Tears.
David called, hysterical. «What have you *done*? Ive lost my job! My wife left!»
«I lived,» I said. «You left me in the woods. I told the world. Fairs fair.»
He begged. Promised the flat, money.
«Too late,» I said. «Bring me flowers. Say, *’Mum, I love you.’* Mean it. Then Ill forgive.»
A week later, he came. Yellow tulipsmy favourite. Kneeling. Sobbing.
«Stand up,» I said. «Im not God. Im your mother. And I… forgive.»
Now I rent a room by the sea. Balcony. Gulls. Sunlight.
David visits weekly. Brings food. Flowers. Talks of the kids.
Hes changed. Or pretends. I dont care. His eyes hold fear nowfear of losing me twice.
I dont live with him. But I didnt cast him out. Every soul deserves redemption. Even a son who left his mother in the woods.
At dusk, I watch the waves. Think of my husband. How hed be proudnot that I survived, but that I didnt harden. Didnt break.
Im alive. Im strong. Im a mother.
And my place isnt in the woods. Not in a care home. But where *I* choose.
Todayby the sea. Tomorrow? Maybe the mountains. Maybe a new flat. With grandchildren. Tulips on the sill.
Because Im not a thing. Not a burden. Not *»old.»*
Im a person. I deserve life. Love. Respect.
Even if they left me in the woods.
Even if they said, *»This is where you belong.»*
I chose somewhere else.
And thats my right.
