After my husbands funeral, my son drove me to the outskirts of town and said, “This is where you get out, Mum. We cant take care of you anymore.”
But I carried a secret Id kept for yearsone my ungrateful son would come to regret.
On the day of my husbands burial, a light drizzle fell. The small black umbrella did little to hide the loneliness gnawing at my heart. I trembled as I held the incense stick, staring at the freshly dug grave, the earth still damp. My companion of nearly forty yearsmy beloved Robertwas now nothing but a handful of cold soil.
There was no time to wallow in grief after the funeral. My eldest son, James, whom my husband had trusted completely, wasted no time taking the keys.
Years earlier, when Robert was still in good health, hed said, “Were getting older. Lets put the deed in Jamess name, so he can manage it.” I didnt objectwhat parent doesnt love their child? So, the house and land were transferred to James.
A week after the burial, James suggested a walk to clear my mind. I never expected it to feel like a knife in the back. The car stopped on the edge of town, near an abandoned bus stop.
James spoke coldly, “Get out here. My wife and I cant support you anymore. From now on, youre on your own.”
My ears rang, my vision blurred. I thought Id misheard. But his expression was firm, as if hed shove me out if I didnt move. In shock, I sat by the roadside near a small shop, clutching only a cloth bag with a few clothes.
The housewhere Id lived, cared for my husband, and raised my childrenwas no longer mine. It was in his name. I had no right to return.
They say, “When you lose your husband, you still have your children.” But sometimes, its as if you dont. My own son had cornered me.
Yet James didnt know I wasnt empty-handed. In my pocket, I kept my savings bookthe money Robert and I had set aside over a lifetime, worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. Wed hidden it well, never mentioning it to the children or anyone else.
Once, Robert had told me, “People only behave when theyve something to lose.”
That day, I stayed silent. I didnt beg, didnt reveal a thing. I needed to see how Jamesand lifewould treat him.
The first night alone, I sat beneath the shops awning. The owner, Mrs. Higgins, had pity on me and gave me a steaming cup of tea. When I told her Id lost my husband and my children had abandoned me, she sighed deeply. “These days, love, theres too many stories like yours. Children care more about money than love.”
I rented a small room with the interest from my savings, careful never to reveal my fortune. I lived simplyworn clothes, cheap meals, nothing to draw attention. Some nights, curled on my creaky bed, I missed my old home: the hum of the ceiling fan, the scent of Roberts ginger salad. The ache was sharp, but I told myself, as long as I lived, I had to push forward.
I adapted. By day, I worked at the marketwashing vegetables, carrying loads, bagging produce. The pay was low, but I didnt mind. I wanted to stand on my own, not rely on pity.
At the market, they called me “Kindly Mrs. Margaret.” They never knew that back in my rented room, Id secretly check my savings book before tucking it away. It was my lifeline.
One day, I bumped into an old friendMrs. Whitmore, my best mate from years past. Seeing me in a rented room, I simply said my husband had passed and times were hard. She took pity and offered me work at her familys café. I accepted. The work was tough, but it meant shelter and foodanother reason to keep my savings hidden.
Meanwhile, whispers about James reached me. He lived in a grand house with his wife and children, bought a new car, but had taken to gambling. One acquaintance muttered, “I reckon hes already put the house up as collateral.”
My heart clenched, but I refused to contact him. Hed left me without mercy at that bus stop. I owed him nothing.
One afternoon, as I cleaned the café, a well-dressed but tense-faced man walked in. I recognized himone of Jamess drinking mates. He studied me and asked, “Youre Jamess mother?”
I nodded.
He stepped closer, voice urgent. “He owes us tens of thousands. Hes hiding now. If you care, help him.”
I was stunned.
He gave a bitter smile. “Im broke myselfcant do a thing.”
He left angry. But it made me think. I still loved James, yet the hurt ran deep. Hed abandoned me without remorse. Was this his just deserts? Was it fair?
Months later, James came to me. He was gaunt, dishevelled, eyes red. The moment he saw me, he dropped to his knees, voice breaking. “Mum, I was wrong. Ive been wretched. Pleasesave me one last time. Or my familys ruined.”
My heart twisted. I remembered nights crying for him, the abandonment Id endured. But I also remembered Roberts dying words: “No matter what, hes still our son.”
I stayed silent a long while. Then I went to my room and took out the savings bookthe money my parents had left me, worth hundreds of thousands. I placed it before James and met his gaze, voice steady.
“This is my parents money. I hid it because I feared you wouldnt respect it. I give it to you nowbut remember: if you trample a mothers love again, no amount of wealth will let you walk with dignity.”
James trembled as he took it. He wept like a child in the rain.
I knew he might changeor not. But at least Id done my last duty as a mother. And the secret of that moneyfinallywas revealed when it mattered most.
