“Get Lost and Don’t Bother”: A Mother’s Final Journey
Margaret and Albert Whitmore lived a long, bumpy life together—like an old country lane full of potholes and patches of sunlight. Margaret always believed that with her husband by her side, no trouble was too great. They endured over forty years—poverty, a house fire, the loss of their two eldest sons. Through it all, they bore it silently, hand in hand. All they had left was their youngest, Timothy—their last hope, their little light in the window. He grew up, went to university, and moved to London. He wrote often, visited seldom, but Margaret understood—work, responsibilities. After all, her boy had become a *proper businessman*.
When Albert passed—his heart gave out during a bitter January blizzard—Margaret felt truly alone. The cottage in the countryside turned hollow, the snow blanketing the roof like a shroud. Timothy insisted she move in with him—into the flat he’d bought after marrying his new wife, Vanessa—a sharp-tongued woman with designer heels and a laugh like clinking ice.
The flat was grand—five rooms, gleaming hardwood floors, fancy gadgets, even a coffee machine that *spoke*. But to Margaret, it was all foreign. Even the air. She was given the smallest room at the end of the hall. Not quite a cage, but not a home either. She sat there like a ghost, afraid to make a sound.
*”Just don’t get in the way,”* Timothy murmured once. *”Vanessa’s not used to having… others around.”*
Margaret stayed quiet. She was always quiet now. Sometimes Timothy popped in for a chat, but not often. And Vanessa? She barely acknowledged her. Sometimes she’d pass by with a look like she’d stepped in something unpleasant.
One evening, Timothy asked Margaret to join them for dinner. She changed into her best dress, smoothed her hair, and sat at the table. Then Vanessa, pouring wine with forced cheer, announced:
*”Well, look who’s joined the modern world! Do you even know how to use a microwave, or do you still cook over a fire back in the sticks?”*
Her laughter was brittle, like shattered glass. Timothy said nothing. Margaret stared at her plate.
Later, she overheard the conversation she wasn’t meant to hear.
*”Timothy, how much longer is this going on? I’m embarrassed! My friends won’t even come over—they think your mother’s some kind of ghost haunting the hallway!”*
*”She doesn’t do anything, she just sits there—”*
*”The fact she *exists* is the problem! How old is she? Why doesn’t she just die quietly and stop ruining our lives?”*
*”For God’s sake, Vanessa, she’s my *mother*!”*
*”What’s she ever done for you? You wouldn’t keep a stray rat in the house, would you?”*
Margaret pressed her hands over her ears and sat like that for hours, silent tears running down her face. She’d thought she raised a decent man. Thought she’d given him everything. Turns out, she was just *in the way*.
She didn’t sleep that night. Instead, she sorted through memories, regrets, the few belongings she still had. The money from selling the cottage—she’d kept it in the bank, meant to help with the mortgage. But Timothy had waved it off: *”Mum, don’t be silly, we paid cash.”*
By dawn, she’d made up her mind. She would leave. Quietly, kindly. The way she’d always lived.
She packed a small bag—her grandmother’s shawl, a Bible, a warm jumper, and a little cash. Slipped out without a sound. Wandered the streets until she found the train station. Bought a ticket to the countryside, to a little abbey she’d read about in a parish newsletter once.
She’d always meant to visit, but there was always something—Timothy might need her, grandchildren might come. But there were no grandchildren. And no one needed her at all.
At the abbey, they welcomed her like family. No questions, just an embrace and a gentle *”Stay with us, love. God will provide.”*
They gave her a simple room—a bed, a quilt, a small icon. A young novice, Sister Agnes, became her helper—reading prayers, bringing tea, steadying her when she walked. Margaret gave the abbey everything she had—the money, her wedding ring, even the shawl. All for peace. For quiet.
And for the first time in decades, she didn’t feel like a burden. Just a woman. The soft glow of candles, the scent of incense, the stillness—it mended her soul. She knitted socks by the window, whispered prayers in chapel. Lit a candle for Albert’s soul. Another for Timothy. One for Vanessa, too.
*”Forgive them, Lord,”* she murmured. *”They don’t know what they’re doing.”*
A year later, as the last autumn leaves fell from the abbey’s oak trees, Margaret took her vows. She became Sister Mary.
She passed quietly in December. After morning prayers. They found her in her room—hands folded, eyes closed, a candle burnt to its stub.
Timothy didn’t come to the funeral. Sent a cheque instead. The sisters just smiled and said, *”Sister Mary was family. We’ll see her home.”*
Now a simple wooden cross marks her grave. An old tabby cat—the one she used to feed—stretches in the sun beside it. And if you listen closely, the wind in the trees almost murmurs:
*”Get lost and don’t bother…”*
No, love. You didn’t get lost. You found your way.
