After my husbands funeral, my son drove me out onto a narrow woodland lane and said, Here is where you belong.
I didnt weep at the burial. Not because I didnt love Arthur, the man Id shared fortytwo years with, weathering poverty, illness and the occasional joy. My tears had lodged themselves deep inside, like a stone stuck in my throat. They never surfaced at the graveside, nor later when my neighbour, Mrs. Whitaker, brought a tray of tea and said, Come on, Eleanor, keep your chin up. I nodded, offered a polite smile, and shut the door.
Andrew, my son, stood beside me at the service. Tall, dignified, dressed in an expensive black suit that probably cost more than my halfyears pension. He steadied me by the elbow, as proper families do, but his hand was coldnot from the weather but as if he were holding a duty, a burden.
During the wake he raised a toast, speaking loudly, with pauses and gestures. Everyone applauded: What a son! What a handsome fellow! How clever! I sat in the corner, watching him. His face was both familiar and foreignmy eyes, his fathers nose, a smile that belonged to a man who had long ceased to be mine.
Three days after the funeral he came to my flat. I was making a strong cup of tea, just as Arthur liked itblack, with a splash of milk, no sugar. Andrew slipped into the kitchen, placed the car keys and my passport on the table and said, Mother, Ive thought it through. A care home in the woods would be better for you. Quiet, cosy, a proper ending. The air is cleaner and the other residents will be retirees like you. You wont have to sit alone in that flat.
He stopped short, but I understood the unspoken: You could die, sooner rather than later, so you wont be a bother.
I stayed silent, sipping the hot tea, burning my lips, drinking to keep the tremor at bay, to keep from shouting, to keep from hurling my cup at him.
The flat and the business are now mine, he added. Father arranged everything in my name a year ago. He always thought about me, so I wouldnt be upset, so thered be no arguments. I knew that Arthur had transferred everything to Andrew a year before he died, without asking me. I had accepted it, thinking, Fine, as long as my son is around to look after me. Foolish, perhaps.
You see, he continued, youre not meant to stay there alone. Youre old, tired, you cant manage. His last words slipped out soft, almost sympathetic, as if he were diagnosing a broken object that needed to be thrown away.
When? I asked.
He seemed to wait for my tears, my screams, my threats, but I merely asked, When?
Tomorrow morning, he said. Everythings ready. You wont even need to pack; the things are already there. Just take what you need. Ill visit, of course. He lied. I knew he would never come.
The next morning Andrew arrived in his Jaguar. I walked out with a suitcase containing a photograph of Arthur, my passport, a few pounds I had hidden away over the years, and a notebook of his favourite recipes. He tossed the suitcase into the boot like a sack of potatoes, opened the rear door, and I settled into the back seat without a word. He turned the key and rolled out of the driveway.
We drove in silence. The city fell behind, then the suburbs, then the forest. The road turned to a rough, potholestrewn track. I stared out at the trees, the hush, the birds, the wild beauty and the growing dread.
Andrew, I asked, where exactly is this home?
He didnt answer at once, then tossed over his shoulder, Youll see soon enough. After another twenty minutes he turned onto a narrow forest lane. The car jolted over bumps; I clutched the door handle, my heart poundingnot from the shake but from a foreboding.
He stopped, stepped out, opened the door for me. I stepped onto a path where no soul, no houses, no fences existedonly dense, dark, silent woods.
This is your place, he said.
I looked back at him; his face was calm, almost pleased.
What do you mean my place? I asked.
Just as it is, he replied. You understand. Itll be quieter here. No one will disturb you.
He placed a bag beside me, saying there was enough food for a couple of days and that I, being a clever woman, would manage after that.
I froze, a white static filling my mind as if someone had muted the world.
Youre abandoning me here? I whispered.
He shrugged. Im not abandoning you. Im letting go. Youll leave soon anyway. Why bother with a flat, with the city? Youre just a reminder that I should feel something, and I dont want that. My life, my familymy wife, my childrenthey dont want a granny in the house, especially one so weary.
He spoke as if reading a shopping list.
Andrew, I murmured, Im your mother.
He corrected himself, Now youre a burden. Sorry. But this will be better for everyone.
He slipped back into the car, started the engine. I lunged for the door, grabbed the handle.
Andrew! Wait! Ill give you everything! The flat, the money, all of it! Just dont leave me here! I shouted.
He floored the accelerator. The car lurched forward; I fell, slammed my knee against a stone, screamed, crawled after the vehicle, but he never looked back.
I sat on the ground, clutching my bleeding knee, the pain not just physical but a deep, hollow ache where my heart once beat.
I opened the bag, pulled out a bottle of water, a sandwich, a chocolate barperhaps he thought I should not die immediately, so his conscience wouldnt gnaw at him, so he could later claim, I gave her a chance.
I ate the chocolate, drank the water, rose, and looked around.
Only forest stretched in every directionno road, no trail, no human footprints, only animal paths and an oppressive silence that rang in my ears.
I walked, simply walking wherever my eyes fellperhaps toward a road, a river, or death. It mattered little.
After an hour I found a narrow, crystalclear stream. I cupped water in my hands, washed my face, and stared at my reflection: grey hair, wrinkles, hollow eyes, as if the person inside were missing.
Youre old, a voice whisperedmy own.
Yes. Im old, but not dead.
Night fell; I curled under a spruce, wrapped in my coat, shivering not from cold but from anger, from hurt, from a pain deeper than frost.
I thought of Arthurhow he used to laugh, brew peppermint tea when I was ill, hold my hand when I was scared, call me his rock. Now I felt like a discarded object, trash.
I didnt want to die here, not like this.
The next morning I kept walking, the whole day, with no aim, simply to keep my mind from unraveling.
On the third day I stumbled upon a gravel road. A lorry stopped; the driver, a kindly man in his fifties, asked, Where to, miss?
I didnt know what to answer. The first thing that came to mind was, To the town. To my son.
He nodded, opened the door, and said, Hop in, Ill give you a lift. I climbed aboard and sat mute the whole ride. He turned on the radio; an old ballad played. I closed my eyes, finally letting the three days of heldin tears flow like a river.
He pulled up at the bus station, handed me a bottle of water and a sandwich, and said, Dont worry, things will get better.
I thanked him, stepped out, and made my way to the police station in the town. I told the officer everything, plainly, without dramatics, just facts.
He listened, took notes, and shook his head. Without evidence we cant do much, he said. He didnt assault you, didnt threaten youjust left you in the woods. Thats not a crime under the law.
I looked at his badge, his indifferent eyes.
So he could do this to someone else again? And face no consequences? I asked.
If theres no proof, yes, he replied. You might want to see a solicitor or a social service. They could help with housing.
I left, rain beginning to patter. People hurried past, oblivious to the old woman with a suitcase.
I went to the public library, used the free internet, wrote letters to the Crown Prosecution Service, to the Human Rights Commission, to local newspapers, to blogs.
A week later a young journalist named Claire called. Eleanor, would you speak to us? Well publish your story. People need to know.
I gave her a barebones account. The article ran three days later, headlined: Son Abandons Mother in Woods: This Is Her Place.
My funeral photo, grey dress, empty stare, went viral. Hundreds of comments, thousands of shares. Outrage, tears, demands for justice.
The next day Andrew called, his voice shaking. Mum, what have you done?!
Im alive, I said.
Youre killing me! I lost my job! My wife left! The kids are embarrassed! Do you understand what youve caused?!
I understand, I replied. You left me in the woods. I told the world. Its fair.
Ill come, Ill take everything backflat, money, everything! he begged.
Its too late, I said. I dont want your flat. I want you to realise a mother isnt rubbish, old age isnt a sentence, a person isnt an object.
He fell silent, then weptfor the first time in his life.
Sorry, he whispered. Im sorry.
Ill forgive you, I said. When you come, bring flowers, not money or a flat. Say Mum, I love you, and Ill believe you if its true.
A week later he arrived with a bouquet of yellow tulipsmy favouriteknelt, cried, kissed my hands. I looked at his tears, his fear, his repentance.
Stand up, I told him. Im not a god. Im a mother, and I forgive you.
Now I live not in a care home, not in his flat, but in a modest seaside cottage with a balcony, gulls, and sunshine.
Andrew visits each week, bringing food, flowers, stories about his children, his work, his life. He seems changed, or perhaps merely pretends. I see the fear in his eyesthe fear of losing me again, the fear of being without forgiveness.
I havent moved back in with him, but I havent pushed him away either, because I believe everyone deserves a chance at redemption, even a son who once left his mother in a forest.
In the evenings I step onto my balcony, watch the tide, think of Arthur and how proud he would benot because I survived, but because I didnt become the quiet, obedient, forgotten woman he once wanted.
I am alive. I am strong. I am a mother.
My place is not the woods, not the care home, but wherever I choose to be.
Today by the sea. Tomorrow perhaps the hills. Maybe a new flat with grandchildren, a son, tulips on the windowsill.
Because I am not a burden, not old, not a thing.
I am a person, with a right to live, to love, to be respected.
Even after being abandoned in the forest.
Even after they said, Your place is here.
I chose another place.
And that is my right.
