**Diary Entry**
When the growl of the Mercedes engine finally faded into the trees, silence settled over me like a heavy blanket. I stood there, clutching my bag, knees trembling, every breath sharp. The air smelled of damp earth, moss, and rotting leaves. The birds had gone quiet, as if the forest itself knew something was terribly wrong.
I didnt call out again. Tears, which hadnt come at the funeral, spilled over nownot from grief, but humiliation. The realisation that my own flesh and bloodmy sonhad discarded me like an old piece of furniture.
I sat on a fallen log, gathering my thoughts. The sun was sinking, light turning golden, shadows stretching long. In the quiet, only my heartbeat echoed. I knew: if I stayed, Id die. But I refused to give him that satisfaction.
From my bag, I pulled out a photograph of my late husband. His familiar smile met my gaze.
“See, William,” I whispered. “This is what you raised. This is the good lad you were so proud of.”
A tear splashed onto the picture. And in that moment, something inside me clicked. Not fear, but willpower. That stubborn, country-womans grit that had carried me through life.
I stood. If he thought Id just waste away quietly, he didnt know me at all. Id survived the war, rationing, hospitals. Id survive this.
I walkedhow long, I dont know. The woods were thick, twigs snapping underfoot. My shoes were caked in mud, my heart hammering. Thena rustle, and the outline of a small cabin. An abandoned hunting lodge. The roof sagged, windows boarded, but it was dry inside. I found an old blanket, lay down on a bench, and slept to the hoot of an owl.
At dawn, I woke. Every muscle ached, but my mind was clear. I knew what to do: go back to town. Not for revenge, but justice. Because the boy who could leave his own mother in the woods was no man at all, and such men must learn life always collects its debts.
Hours later, I heard engines. Stumbling onto the road, I flagged down a lorry. The driver, a gruff man with a thick mustache, gaped.
“Bloody hell, love, what are you doing out here?”
“Going home,” I said softly. “Only my son forgot to take me back.”
He didnt ask more. He drove me to town, and I went straight to the police. The young sergeant blinked.
“Maam, you serious? Your son left you in the woods? Must be a misunderstanding.”
I showed him my old button phone. The only proof: a photo of that black Mercedes vanishing between the trees.
“Dont think it was a misunderstanding, lad,” I said.
The story spread fast. My face was in the papers: “Wealthy businessman abandons elderly mother in forest.” Neighbours, churchgoerseveryone talked. My sons photo from the funeral, in his black suit, took on new meaning: coldness, shame.
When he was finally summoned, he was pale, twitchy. We met in the corridor.
“Mum whyd you do this to me? My business, my reputationruined!”
I looked into his eyes. No guilt, only fear.
“It was the end for me too, son,” I said quietly. “Only I chose to live.”
The investigation dragged on. He hired solicitors, called it a “miscommunication,” even apologisedbut I knew it was for his sake, not mine.
The court found him guiltyendangering life, abandoning a vulnerable person. A suspended sentence, a fine, community service. Legally lenient. But the real punishment came later.
On the courthouse steps, he turned to me, empty-eyed.
“Youve destroyed my life,” he muttered.
“No, son,” I said. “You did that. I just walked out of those woods.”
I never saw him again. He sold the flat, moved abroadGermany, they say.
I stayed. In the same home he once tried to take from me. I redecorated.
Fresh paint, geraniums in the windowsill. Every morning, I brew strong teamilk, no sugar. And I always set out two cups. One for William.
On the sill sits a small white pebblethe same one that cut my knee when I fell in the woods. A reminder. Not of pain, but strength.
Because age doesnt begin when youre discarded. It begins when you believe theres no life left in you.
I never believed it.
And thats why Im still here.
