5 March
After my wifes funeral, James drove me out of the little hamlet of Littleford. At the very edge of the town he turned to me, his voice flat, and said, This is where you get off, Mum. We cant look after you any longer.
I said nothing. I had been holding a secret for decadesone my selfish son would one day come to rue.
It drizzled the morning we laid Edward to rest. My battered black umbrella could not shield the emptiness inside me. I shivered, clutching a stick of incense between my fingers, staring at the damp earth. My companion of nearly forty yearsmy beloved Edwardhad become a shallow patch of cold soil.
There was no time to mourn.
James, my eldestthe one Edward trusted without questionhad taken the house keys before the mourners had even finished their tea.
Years earlier, when Edward was still in good health, he had said, Were getting old. Put the title in Jamess name so hell be responsible. So we transferred the house and the land to our son.
On the seventh day after the burial, James invited me for a drive to clear my head. I had no inkling that I was being led to a knife in the back.
He stopped near an abandoned coach stop on the outskirts and said, final and cold, 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 away had I hesitated.
I found myself on a low stool outside a tiny shop, clutching a cloth bag with a few garments. The house where I had nursed Edward and raised my children no longer belonged to me; the deed bore Jamess name. I had no right to return.
They say a widower still has his children. Sometimes having children feels exactly like having none.
James had cornered me, but I was not emptyhanded.
In the pocket of my shirt I kept a bank passbookour lifes savings, the money Edward and I had tucked away pound by pound, amounting to tens of millions. 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 shop owner, Mrs. Nancy, 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 earned. I kept my head down, wore old clothes, ate cheap food, and attracted no attention.
At night, curled on a wobbly wooden bed, I missed the creak of our ceiling fan and the smell of Edwards roast beef. 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, hauling sacks, wrapping produce. The pay was modest. It mattered little. I wanted to stand on my own feet, not on anyones pity. Vendors began to call me Mr. 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 ran into an old friend, Mrs. Rose, from my girlhood. I told her only that Edward had passed and times were hard. She offered me a place in her family tearoomfood and a cot in the back, in exchange for work. It was hard, honest, and it kept me fed. It gave me another reason to keep my secret close.
News of James still reached 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 tearoom one dayJamess drinking companion. He looked at me for a long moment and asked, Are you Thomass mother? I nodded.
He owes us millions, the man said. Hes hiding. If you still want him, save him. He gave a bitter smile. Im tapped out. Then he left.
I stood where he had been, rag in hand, thinking of my sonthe boy Id rocked to sleep, the man whod pushed me from the car. Was this justice? Was it punishment? I did not know.
Months passed. James finally appearedthin, holloweyed, unshaven. He fell to his knees as soon as he saw me.
Mother, I was wrong, he choked. Ive been rotten. Please, save me this once. If you dont, my family is finished.
Memories rose like tidewater: my lonely nights, 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 caught in the rain.
Maybe he will change. Maybe he wont. But I have done what I could as a father.
The secret, at last, was toldexactly when it was needed.
Lesson: love hoarded in silence breeds bitterness; when it is finally shared, it can either mend or break the bonds that hold us together.
