When the rumble of the Mercedes engine vanished at last among the trees, silence settled over me like a thick blanket. I stood there, trembling, my knees shaking, my bag clutched in my hand, every breath aching. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth, moss, and rotting leaves. The birds had fallen quiet. Even the woods themselves seemed to know something was terribly wrong.
I didnt cry out again. The tears that hadnt come at the funeral now spilled freelynot from grief, but from humiliation. From the crushing realisation that my own flesh and bloodmy sonhad cast me aside like an old chair.
I sat on a fallen log, trying to gather my thoughts. The sun crept lower, the light turning gold, the shadows stretching long. In the quiet, all I heard was my own heartbeat. I knew if I stayed, I would die. But I refused to give him that satisfaction.
From my bag, I drew out a photograph of my late husband. His face, his familiar, gentle smile, gazed back at me.
You see, James, I whispered. This is what you raised. This is the good lad you were so proud of.
A tear fell onto the photo. And in that moment, something inside me shifted. It wasnt fear that took holdit was defiance. That stubborn, countrywomans will that had carried me through wars, rationing, inflation, and hospitals. This, too, I would survive.
I stood. If he thought Id wither away in silence, he didnt know me at all.
I walked. I dont know how long. The woods were dense, twigs snapping underfoot. My shoes caked in mud, my heart hammering in my throat. Then, in the distancea rustle, then the outline of a small hut. An abandoned hunters lodge, its roof sagging, its windows boarded, but dry inside. I found an old blanket, lay down on a bench, and fell asleep to the hooting of an owl.
At dawn, I woke. Every bone ached, but my mind was clear. I knew what I had to doreturn 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 men like that must learn life does not forget its debts.
I wandered for hours before the distant hum of cars reached me. Stumbling onto the road, a lorry slowed. The driver, a moustached man in his sixties, gaped at me.
Bloody hell, maam, what are you doing out here?
Going home, I said softly. Only my son forgot to take me back.
He asked no more. He drove me to the city, and I went straight to the police. The young sergeant stared at me in disbelief.
Maam, youre serious? Your son left you in the woods? Surely its a misunderstanding?
I pulled out my phonean old button modeland showed him the only photo Id taken as the car sped away: the black Mercedes disappearing among the trees.
I dont think it was a misunderstanding, young man.
The story spread quickly. My face was in the papers: Wealthy businessman abandons elderly mother in the woods. Neighbours, friends, the ladies from churcheveryone talked. My sons photo from the funeral, in his black suit, now meant something else: coldness. Shame.
When he was finally summoned to the station, he was pale, nervous. We met in the corridor.
Mum why would you do this to me? Its ruined everything. My business, my reputationeverything!
I looked at him. His eyes held no guiltonly fear.
It nearly ruined me too, son, I said quietly. Only I chose to live.
The investigation dragged on for weeks. He hired solicitors, claimed a misunderstanding, that hed panicked. He even apologised, but I knewit wasnt remorse. It was damage control.
In the end, the court found him guilty. Endangering life, abandonment of a vulnerable person. Eighteen months suspended, a fine, community service. By the laws measure, a light sentence. But the real punishment came after.
On the courthouse steps, he stopped, staring at me with empty eyes.
Youve destroyed my life, he whispered.
No, son, I said. You destroyed yours. I just walked out of those woods.
I never saw him again. He sold his flat, moved abroadGermany, they say.
I stayed. In the same house he once tried to take from me. I had it repainted. The walls are fresh, geraniums in the windows. Every morning, I brew a cup of strong teajust 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 remindernot of pain, but of strength.
Because old 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.
