When the growl of the Jaguars engine faded into the trees at last, the silence settled over me like a heavy cloak. I stood there, clutching my handbag, my knees trembling, each breath a stab of pain. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, moss, and rotting leaves. Even the birds had gone quiet. It was as if the forest itself knew something was terribly wrong.
I didnt cry out again. The tears that had refused to fall at the funeral now came unbiddennot from grief, but from humiliation. The realisation that my own flesh and bloodmy sonhad discarded me like an old piece of furniture.
I sat on a fallen log, trying to gather my thoughts. The sun was sinking low, the light turning gold, the shadows stretching long. In the quiet, all I heard was the thud of my own heart. I knew if I stayed, I would die. But I refused to give him that satisfaction.
From my bag, I took out a photograph of my husband. His face, his familiar, kind smile, met my eyes.
You see, Albert, 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 shifted. It wasnt fear that took hold, but resolve. That stubborn, country-womans will that had carried me through my whole life.
I stood. If he thought Id waste away quietly in these woods, he didnt know me at all. Id survived the war, rationing, hospital wards, and worse. I would survive this too.
I walked. I dont know how long. The forest was thick, branches snapping underfoot. My shoes were caked in mud, my heart pounding in my throat. Then, in the distancea rustle, then the shape of a small hut. A derelict hunters lodge, its roof half-collapsed, windows boardedbut dry inside. I found an old blanket and lay down on a bench. Somewhere in the night, between the hoots of an owl, I fell asleep.
At dawn, I woke. Every bone ached, but my mind was clear. I knew what to do: I had to return to the city. Not for revenge, but for justice. Because the boy who could leave his own mother in the woods was no longer a man. And such men must learn life always collects its debts.
Hours I wandered, until at last I heard the distant hum of traffic. Stumbling onto the motorway, a lorry slowed. The driver, a grizzled man in his sixties, stared at me in shock.
Blimey, love, what on earth are you doing out here?
Going home, I said quietly. Only my son forgot to take me back.
He asked no more. He bundled me into the cab and drove me to town. I went straight to the police. The young sergeant looked at me in disbelief.
Maam, youre serious? Youre saying your son abandoned you in the woods? Surely its a misunderstanding?
I pulled out my phonean old, clunky thingand showed him the only photo Id managed to take as the car sped away: the black Jaguar disappearing into the trees.
I think that settles it, young man, I said.
The story spread fast. My face was on the front pages: *Wealthy Businessmans Son Leaves Elderly Mother to Die in Woods*. Neighbours, acquaintances, even the ladies at the parish churchall were talking. Edwards photo, taken at the funeral in his smart black suit, now meant something else entirely: coldness, shame.
When he was finally called to the station, he was pale, jittery. We met in the corridor.
Mum why would you do this to me? Its over now. My business, my reputationeverything!
I looked at him. His eyes held no guiltonly fear.
It was over for me too, son, I said softly. Only I chose to live.
The investigation dragged on for weeks. He hired lawyers, tried to spin it as a misunderstanding, that hed panicked. He even apologised, but I knewhe wasnt sorry for me, only for himself.
In the end, the court found him guilty. Endangering life, abandoning a vulnerable person. Eighteen months suspended, a fine, community service. By the letter of the law, a light sentence. But the real punishment came later.
As we left the courtroom, he stopped on the steps, staring at me with hollow eyes.
Youve ruined my life, he whispered.
No, son, I said. You did that. I just walked out of those woods.
I never saw him again. He sold the house, moved abroad. They say hes still there, somewhere in Germany.
I stayed. In the same flat he once tried to take from me. Ive had it redone.
The walls are fresh, geraniums in the window. Every morning, I make a cup of teastrong, with milk, no sugar. And I always set out two cups. One for my husband.
On the windowsill sits a small white pebble. The same one that cut my knee when I fell on that forest path. A reminder. Not of the painbut of the strength.
Because age doesnt begin when youre cast aside. It begins when you believe theres no life left in you.
I never believed it.
And thats why Im still here.
