After my husband Edwards funeral, my son John drove me out of the hamlet. At the edge of the town he turned to me, his voice cold, and said, This is where you get off, Mother. We cant look after you any longer.
I said nothing. For years I had guarded a secretone that my ungrateful son would one day come to regret.
It drizzled the morning we laid Edward to rest. My little black umbrella could not shield the emptiness in my chest. I trembled, incense smouldering between my fingers, staring at the damp earth. My companion of nearly forty yearsmy beloved Edwardhad become a handful of cold soil.
There was no time for mourning.
John, my eldestthe one Edward trusted without questiontook the house keys before the mourners had even finished their tea.
Years earlier, when Edward was still hale, he had said, Were getting on in years. Put the title in Johns name so hell be responsible. So, with love, we transferred the cottage and the garden to our son.
On the seventh day after the burial, John invited me for a drive to clear my head. I did not know that the road would end at a betrayal.
He stopped beside an abandoned omnibus shelter on the outskirts and said, flat 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 away if I had hesitated.
I found myself on a low stool outside a tiny shop, clutching a cloth bag with a few garments. The cottage where I had nursed Edward and raised my children no longer belonged to me; the deed bore Johns name. I had no right to return.
They say a widow still has her children. Sometimes having children feels exactly like having none.
John had cornered me. But I was not emptyhanded.
In the pocket of my blouse I kept a bank passbookour lifes savings, the money Edward and I had set aside pound by pound, amounting to some tens of thousands. 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 would not beg. I would not reveal a thing. I wanted to see what lifeand Johnwould do next.
The first evening, the shopkeeper, Mrs. Nelly, took pity and brought me hot tea. When I told her my husband had died and my children had left me, she sighed. Theres plenty of that now, dear. Children count money better than love.
I rented a tiny room, paying from the interest the savings earned. I kept my head down. Old clothes. Cheap food. No attention.
At night, curled on a wobbly wooden bed, I missed the creak of our ceiling fan and the smell 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, hauling sacks, wrapping produce. The pay was small. It did not matter. I wanted to stand on my own feet, not on anyones pity. Vendors began to call me Mum Eleanor. 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. Rose, from my girlhood. I told her only that Edward had passed and times were hard. She offered me a place in her family tea shopa cot in the back, 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 John still reached me. He and his wife lived in a large house, drove a new motorcarand 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 shop one dayJohns drinking companion. He looked at me a long time and asked, Youre Johns mother? I nodded.
He owes us a fortune, the man said. Hes hiding. If you still love him, save him. He gave a bitter smile. Im spent. Then he left.
I stood where he had been, dishrag in hand, thinking of my sonthe boy I had rocked to sleep, the man who had pushed me from the car. Was this justice? Punishment? I did not know.
Months passed. John finally appearedthin, holloweyed, unshaven. He fell to his knees the moment he saw me.
Mother, I was wrong, he choked. I was rotten. Please, save me this once. If you dont, my family is ruined.
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 would not value it. Im giving it to you now. But hear me: if you grind your mothers love under your heel again, no fortune will ever lift your head high.
Johns hands shook as he took the passbook. He wept like a child in the rain.
Perhaps he will change. Perhaps he will not. But I have done what I could as a mother.
And at last the secret was toldexactly when it was needed.
