During her sons funeral, the mother took an axe and struck the coffin lid repeatedly. When it shattered, the onlookers saw something horrifying.
“I wont attend the burial. Thats not my son.”
“Mum, what are you saying? This is your sons funeralmy husbands. How can you not go?”
“You dont understand. My son isnt in that coffin. Theyre lying. Theyre hiding something.”
“But you saw the papers. They explainedhis face was unrecognisable after the accident, but the DNA test confirmed it was him.”
“That isnt my son. I can feel it.”
“Youre grieving. You dont want to believe hes gone.”
“My son is alive. Stop speaking of him in the past tense.”
No amount of persuasion could sway her. Yet, hours later, she agreed to attendrefusing black attire, she wore a blue coat instead. Clutching a thick black bag, she never let go. Her daughter-in-law said nothing more; at least shed come.
The day was grim, clouds hanging low over the graveyard. As the ceremony began and nails hammered the coffin shut, the mother stepped forward, pale-faced. She set down the bag, drew out an axe, andbefore anyone could reactswung with all her might.
A crack split the air; wood splintered. One strike, then anotherthe coffin split nearly in half.
Silence. Some covered their mouths; others recoiled. The vicar averted his gaze. Then came the scream:
“Its empty!”
Chaos erupted. Men confronted the gravediggers; someone called the police. The daughter-in-law dropped her handbag, blood draining from her face. The mother stood over the wreckage, knuckles white around the axe handle.
“I told you,” she said, voice steady. “My son isnt here.”
A thin cemetery caretaker pushed through the crowd, hesitant. “The body it was taken. Last night. Two men cameshowed documents. Said it was being moved to another citys morgue for further tests. I I didnt know”
The words cut like a winter gust. Where had they taken him? Who were they?
Police arrived swiftly, questioning witnesses. The worst revelation came later: the morgues log showed no record of a transfer.
Instead of her sons name, an entry read, “Disposaldocumentation error.” Someone had erased all traces of his death or faked it entirely.
The mother sank onto a bench, gripping a splintered piece of the coffin. Despair didnt flicker in her eyesonly resolve. Alive or not, she would find him. And if he were truly gone, shed unearth those whod stolen even his rest.
Some truths are buried deeper than graves, but a mothers love will always dig them up.
