The rain fell softly on the day we buried my husband. That little black umbrella couldnt shield the loneliness in my heart. I held a candle, staring at the freshly dug grave, the soil still damp, my hands trembling. My companion of nearly forty yearsmy Jameswas now nothing but a handful of cold earth.
There was no time to drown in grief after the funeral. My eldest son, William, the one my husband had trusted completely, wasted no time taking the house keys. Years ago, when James was still well, hed said, *”Were growing old. Lets put everything in our sons name. If its all his, hell take responsibility.”* I didnt argue. What parent doesnt love their child? So the house, the deeds, every documentall went to William.
A week after the funeral, William invited me for a drive. I never imagined that journey would cut like a knife. The car stopped on the outskirts of Manchester, near a bus stop. Williams voice was icy: *”Get out here. My wife and I cant look after you anymore. Youll have to manage on your own.”*
My ears rang. My vision blurred. I thought Id misheard. But his eyes were hard, as if hed push me out if I hesitated. I sat by the roadside, near a corner shop, clutching just a bag of clothes. That housewhere Id lived, where Id raised my childrenwas his now. I had no right to return.
People say, *”When you lose your husband, you still have your children.”* But sometimes, having children feels like having none at all. My own son had cast me aside. Yet William didnt know one thing: I wasnt entirely helpless. Tucked in my pocket was a savings bookthe money James and I had scraped together over a lifetime, over three hundred thousand pounds. Wed kept it secret, away from the children. James used to say, *”People are only kind when you have something to give.”*
That day, I stayed silent. I wouldnt beg. I wouldnt reveal my secret. I wanted to see how Williamand life itselfwould treat me.
The first night after being abandoned, I took shelter under the awning of a small café. The ownerAunt Margaretpitied me and brought me a hot cup of tea. When I told her Id just lost my husband and my children had turned me away, she only sighed. *”Too many stories like yours these days, love. Children care more for money than kindness.”*
I rented a tiny bedsit, paying from the interest of my savings. I was carefulnever letting anyone know I had money. I lived simply: old clothes, cheap bread and lentils, never drawing attention.
Many nights, I curled up on that narrow bed, remembering our old housethe creak of the ceiling fan, the scent of Jamess tea. The memories ached, but I told myself: *As long as I live, I must keep going.*
Slowly, I adjusted. By day, I asked for work at the marketwashing vegetables, carrying crates, wrapping parcels. The pay was meagre, but I didnt mind. I wanted to stand on my own, not beg for charity. The stallholders called me *”Mrs. Grace.”* They didnt know that when the market closed, Id return to my room, open my savings book, and gaze at it before tucking it away. That secret kept me going.
One day, I ran into an old friendMrs. Helen. Shocked to see me in the bedsit, I confessed my husband had passed and life had turned harsh. She took pity and offered me work at her familys roadside café. I agreed. The work was hard, but I had food and a roof. And more reason than ever to keep my savings hidden.
Meanwhile, word reached me about William. He lived in a big house now, drove a new car, but gambled recklessly. A neighbour whispered, *”Hes probably mortgaged the deeds by now.”* My heart ached, but I refused to reach out. Hed left his mother at a bus stop. I had nothing left to say.
One evening, as I wiped tables at the café, a stranger came looking for me. Well-dressed but tense-faced, I recognised himone of Williams drinking mates. He stared me down. *”Youre Williams mother?”* I nodded warily. He leaned in, voice thick with threat. *”He owes us thousands. Hes hiding now. If you love him, help him.”*
I went cold. I only smiled faintly. *”Ive nothing left to give.”*
He left in a rage. But his words haunted me. I loved my son, yet hed wounded me deeply. Hed abandoned me without a second thought. Now he faced his punishmentwas that justice, too?
Months later, William came to me. Gaunt, hollow-eyed, he fell to his knees and wept. *”Mum, I was wrong. Im wretched. Please, save me just once. Or my familys ruined.”*
My heart twisted. I remembered the nights Id cried for him, remembered being left like rubbish. But I also remembered Jamess last words: *”No matter what, hes still our son.”*
I stayed silent a long time. Then I went to my room, pulled out the savings book with its three hundred thousand pounds, and placed it before him. My voice was steady. *”This is everything your father and I saved. I hid it because I feared youd waste it. Now its yours. But rememberif you ever trample a mothers love again, no amount of money will buy back your dignity.”*
William took it, hands shaking, weeping like a storm.
I didnt know if hed change. But as his mother, Id done my last duty. And that secret savings bookit had finally seen the light, just when it was needed most.
