“Go Away and Don’t Bother”: A Mother’s Final Journey
Margaret and William lived a long, uneven life together—like an old country lane, full of potholes and patches of sunlight, storms and calm. Margaret always believed that as long as she had her husband by her side, no trouble was too great to bear. They endured over 40 years side by side. Poverty, a house fire, the loss of their two eldest sons… They bore it all in silence, hands clasped tight. Only their youngest, Peter, remained—their little light, their last hope. He grew up, went to university, moved to London. He wrote often, visited rarely, but Margaret never complained. “He’s busy,” she told herself. “He’s made something of himself.”
When William died—his heart giving out in the bitter cold of January—Margaret was truly alone. The old cottage in Suffolk felt like a tomb, the snow piling on the roof like a shroud. Peter insisted she move in with him—into the spacious flat he’d bought after marrying his new wife, a sharp-tongued woman named Melissa.
The flat was grand: five rooms, gleaming hardwood floors, gadgets from all over. Even the coffee maker spoke. But to Margaret, it was all foreign. Even the air. They gave her a tiny room at the end of the hallway—not quite a prison, but not a home either. She sat there as quiet as a mouse, afraid to make a sound.
“Just don’t be a bother, Mum,” Peter would whisper. “Melissa’s not used to having people around.”
Margaret never replied. She hardly spoke at all. Peter visited sometimes, though not often. And Melissa? She acted like she didn’t even see her. Sometimes she’d walk past with a look like she’d stepped in something foul.
One night, Peter asked Margaret to join them for dinner. She dressed carefully, smoothed her hair, and sat at the table. Then Melissa, pouring wine with forced cheer, grinned and said—
“Oh look, the medieval relic’s graced us with her presence! Do you even know how a microwave works, or do you still cook over a fire back in your village?”
Her laugh was like shattered glass. Peter stayed silent. Margaret lowered her eyes.
Later, she heard the conversation she was never meant to hear.
“Peter, how long is this going to go on? I’m embarrassed! My friends won’t even come over—they’re creeped out by that ghost shuffling around the flat!”
“She’s not hurting anyone—”
“She’s hurting *me* just by existing! How old is she, anyway? Why can’t she just die quietly and stop ruining our lives?”
“What’s *wrong* with you? She’s my *mother*!”
“And what’s she ever done for you? You might as well feed a stray cat, but that doesn’t mean you let it sleep in your bed!”
Margaret covered her ears and sat in the dark for a long time. Her soul ached. She’d thought she’d raised a good man… given him everything. But all she was now was a nuisance.
She didn’t sleep that night. She sorted through her thoughts, her few belongings, her memories. The money from selling the cottage—kept safe in the bank—she’d meant to give to Peter, thinking it might help with the mortgage. But he’d brushed her off. “Mum, we paid cash for everything.”
By dawn, she’d made her decision. She would leave. Quietly, gently. Just as she’d always lived.
She packed a small bag: a scarf, her Bible, a warm jumper, and a bit of cash. She slipped out before sunrise, careful not to make a sound. She wandered the city until she found King’s Cross, bought a train ticket to York, and from there, made her way to a monastery she’d read about years before.
She’d always known of the place—always feared leaving, in case Peter needed her. But there were no grandchildren. No one needed her at all.
The monastery welcomed her as one of their own. No questions, just open arms. “Stay with us,” they said. “God will provide.”
At first, they gave her a plain little room—a bed, a blanket, a small icon on the wall. Then a young novice, Emily, was assigned to help her. The girl read prayers aloud, brought her tea, steadied her when she walked. Margaret gave the monastery everything she had—her money, her grandmother’s ring, even the last shawl she’d knitted. All for peace. All for quiet.
And for the first time in decades, she didn’t feel like a burden. Just a woman again. The soft glow of candles, the scent of incense, the stillness—it all soothed her soul. She sat by the window, knitting socks, murmuring prayers. In the chapel, she lit candles—one for William, one for Peter. Even one for Melissa.
“Forgive them, Lord,” she’d whisper. “They don’t know what they’re doing.”
A year later, as autumn leaves drifted from the monastery’s oaks, Margaret took her vows. They gave her a new name—Sister Agnes.
She passed quietly in December, just after morning prayers. They found her in her room, hands folded, eyes closed, the last candle burned to the wick.
Peter didn’t come to the funeral. He sent money instead. The monks told him, “Sister Agnes was a mother to us. We’ll take care of her.”
Now, a simple wooden cross stands over her grave. An old tabby cat—the one she used to feed—stretches out in the sun. And if you listen close, the wind in the branches seems to whisper:
“Go away and don’t bother…” No, you didn’t go away, Mother. You found your way home.
