After my father’s funeral, my mother took me out of the little village. On the outskirts of the town she turned to me, her voice flat as a winter sky, and said, This is where you get off, Mum. We cant look after you any longer.
I said nothing. I had been keeping a secret for yearsone my ungrateful son would one day come to regret.
It drizzled the morning we laid Edward to rest. My small black umbrella could not shield the emptiness in my chest. I trembled, a stick of incense trembling between my fingers as I stared at the damp earth. My companion of nearly forty yearsmy beloved Edwardhad become a handful of cold soil.
There was no time to mourn.
James, my eldestthe one Edward trusted without questionsnatched the house keys before the mourners had even finished their tea.
Years earlier, while he was still in good health, Edward had said, Were getting on in years. Put the title in Jamess name so hell be responsible. So we transferred the house and the fields to our son.
On the seventh day after the burial, James called me to the garage to clear my head. I didnt realise I was being led to a knife in the back.
He stopped by an abandoned bus shelter on the edge of the lane and said, blunt and final, Get out here. My wife and I cant keep you. From now on youre on your own.
My ears rang. The world tilted. His eyes were hard; he would have pushed me out if Id hesitated.
I ended up on a low stool outside a tiny corner shop, clutching a canvas bag with a few garments. The cottage where I had nursed my husband and raised my children no longer belonged to me; the deed bore Jamess name. I had no right to return.
They say a widow still has her children. Sometimes having children feels exactly like having none.
James had cornered me. But I wasnt emptyhanded.
In the pocket of my shirt I kept a bank passbookour lifes savings, the money Edward and I had set aside pound by pound, amounting to several million. We told no one. Not our children. Not our friends. No one.
People behave when they think you have nothing to give, Edward once told me. I chose silence that day. I wouldnt beg. I wouldnt reveal a thing. I wanted to see what lifeand Jameswould do next.
The first evening, the shopkeeper, Mrs. Nena, took pity and brought me a mug of hot tea. When I told her my husband had died and my children had left me, she sighed. Theres plenty of that now, love. Children count money better than love.
I rented a tiny room, paying from the interest the savings generated. I kept my head down. Old clothes. Cheap meals. No attention.
At night, curled on a wobbling wooden bed, I missed the creak of our ceiling fan and the scent of Edwards ginger salad. The loss hurt, but I told myself: as long as I breathe, I move forward.
I learned the rhythm of this new life.
By day I worked at the marketwashing greens, lugging sacks, wrapping produce. The pay was small. It didnt matter. I wanted to stand on my own feet, not on anyones pity. Vendors began to call me Mum Thomas. None of them knew that each evening I opened my passbook for a heartbeat, then tucked it away again. That was my quiet insurance.
One afternoon I met an old friend, Mrs. Rosa, from my childhood. I told her only that Edward had passed and times were tough. She offered a place in her family tea rooma room in the back, a cot, in exchange for work. It was hard, honest, and it kept me fed. It gave me one more reason to keep my secret close.
News of James still found me. He and his wife lived in a large house, drove a new carand he gambled. I think hes already pawned the title, a neighbour whispered. My chest tightened, but I did not call. He had left his mother at a roadside; what more was there to say?
A man in a crisp shirt came to the tea room one dayJamess drinking companion. He looked at me a long time and asked, Youre Jamess mother? I nodded.
He owes us millions, the man said. Hes hiding. If you still love him, save him. He gave a bitter smile. Im out of cash. Then he left.
I stood where hed stood, dishcloth in hand, thinking of my sonthe boy Id rocked to sleep, the man whod pushed me from the car. Was this justice? Punishment? I didnt know.
Months passed. James finally appearedthin, holloweyed, stubblecovered. He fell to his knees as soon as he saw me.
Mum, I was wrong, he choked. I was rotten. Please, help me this once. If you dont, my family is finished.
Memories rose like tidewater: my nights alone, the empty road, the ache. Then Edwards last words whispered through me: Whatever he becomes, he is still our son.
I said nothing for a long while. Then I went to my room, took out the passbookour lifetime savingsand set it on the table between us.
This is the money your father and I saved, I said evenly. I hid it because I feared you wouldnt value it. Im giving it to you now. But listen: if you grind your mothers love under your heel again, no fortune will ever lift your head high.
Jamess hands shook as he took the passbook. He wept like a child in the rain.
Maybe he will change. Maybe he wont. But I have done what I could as a son.
And the secret, at last, was toldexactly when it was needed.
