After my husbands funeral, my son said, Get out, but he had no idea what Id already done.
You probably wouldnt survive a sentence like that unless youd already lost so much there was hardly anything left to take. So before you get too cosy, take a moment to like the video and subscribebut only if you genuinely enjoy what I do here. And while youre at it, tell me where youre listening from and what time it is. Lets see how many hearts are still beating tonight. Now, turn off the lights, maybe switch on a fan for some gentle background noise, and lets begin. I laugh.
Of course I laugh. I think hes joking. I mean, who does that? Who drives their motherwho buried her husband six days agoto the edge of town and tells her to get out? Im wearing old slippers. My late husband Henrys, in fact. Ive been shuffling around the house in them since the funeral. They dont fit.
They never did. But I couldnt bring myself to wear proper shoes. Not yet.
Are you serious? I ask. My voice is light, as if were rehearsing. As if were still pretending.
Then he looks at me. And then I know. No blink, no tremble. Just handing me my handbag like a takeaway container. The house and the B&B are mine now, he says. Clarissas already changing the locks.
Clarissa, his wife, with her plastic-stretched smile and that soft, condescending tone that makes everything sound like a blessing and a warning at once. I blink hard, as if maybe the road will shift, maybe hell grin and say it was a mistake, a misunderstanding, a terrible joke. But he doesnt.
My doors already open. My slippers scrape against the gravel. And before I can take a breath, the car reverses.
This is mad, I say. My voice doesnt even shake. Its too calm for that. You cant justIm your mother, James.
He doesnt answer. Just tosses over his shoulder, Youll understand. You always do. And then hes gone. No luggage. No phone. No plan. Just a handbag, a coat, and the sound of tyres on wet tarmac fading like smoke.
I dont cry. Not then. I just stand there.
Spine straight. Wind tasting of salt and rust. The mist wraps around me, soft but heavy, as if trying to memorise my shape. I watch his taillights vanish. And with them, 40 years of a life I helped build.
But heres what my son never understood. He didnt leave me alone. He set me free.
He thought he was throwing me away. What he really did was open a door I never knew existed. Because he has no idea what I did before his father died.
We buried Henry just six days earlier. I barely remember the funeral, except how the grass swallowed my heels and how James wouldnt meet my eye. Clarissa clung to his arm like ivy strangling a fence post. I remember her leaning into the vicar, whispering just loud enough for me to hear. *Shes not thinking straight. Its grief. Shes not making rational decisions.*
At the time, I thought she meant well. Now, standing in the mist, I realise what that moment really was. The first move in a coup. Henry had trusted James with the hospice paperwork. I didnt want to burden my sonthats what I told myself. He had enough on his plate. All I wanted was to give Henry dignity in his final weeks. But somewhere between the medical forms and the insurance calls, something else slipped in. Something with my name on it.
Something forged.
I didnt know the full extentnot yet. But I knew enough to feel sickness blooming in my chest like fire under ice. This wasnt just betrayal. It was theft. Of everything. My husband. My home. My voice. The B&B Henry and I built from scratch with paint-stained hands and second-hand furniture. The place that started with two rooms, a portable stove, and a bucket of hope.
James had always been clever. Too clever. Even as a boy, he found loopholes. But that cleverness grew fangs when he paired up with Clarissa. That woman could turn politeness into a weapon.
I started walking. I didnt know where, only that I couldnt stay still. Not in that mist. Not in those slippers. My knees ached. My mouth was dry. But I walked. Past dripping trees. Past moss-covered fences. Past the ghosts of everything Id let go so my son could grow tall.
Around mile four, something settled over me. Quiet but firm. *They think theyve won. They think Im weak. Disposable.* But they forgot one thing. I still had Henrys ledger. I still had the safe deposit box. And most importantly, I still had my name on that deed.
Im not dead yet.
The mist clung like sweat. My legs burned. My breath was shallow. But I didnt stop. Not because I wasnt tiredGod, I was. But if I stopped, Id think. And if I thought, Id break.
I passed under a power line. A crow watched from above, as if it knew. As if it understood. I remembered the little notes I used to tuck into Jamess lunchbox. *Youre brave. Youre kind. I love you.* I cut his turkey sandwiches into dinosaurs. I read him four books every night. I even learned to braid action-figure hairstyles because he wanted warrior looks. And now? Roadside rubbish. That boy who used to sprint into my arms after a nightmaregone. Replaced by a man who could toss me out like yesterdays recycling.
I dont recall how far I walked. Six miles, maybe more. But when I saw that faded sign for Dots General Store, my legs nearly gave out. Dot had run that little shop since I was a teen. She used to sell boiled sweets and newspapers. Now it was lavender lattes and duck-shaped dog treats.
The bell jingled as I stepped inside. Dot peered over her glasses. Margaret, she said, voice sharp with concern. You look dreadful.
Feel worse, I mumbled, lips too stiff to smile.
She didnt wait. Just came round the counter and bundled me up before I could argue. What the hell happened?
I looked down at my feet. Walked.
From where?
The crossroads.
She froze. Thats eight bloody miles.
Six and change, I muttered.
She sat me down, wrapped me in a fleece, and shoved a steaming mug into my hands. It smelled like salvation. Wheres James?
My throat closed.
She stiffened. What dyou mean, *gone*?
I couldnt answer. Not yet.
She didnt push. Just said, Rest. Ill make you a sandwich.
And I sat there, swaddled in old kindnesses, feet blistering, pride bleeding, one phrase buzzing in my skull like a prayer: *What is love without respect?*
Dot offered to drive me anywhere. I said no. I wasnt ready for that sort of kindness. Not yet. I called a cab from Dots phone, paid with the emergency cash Henry had insisted I keep in my bag. He always said a woman should never be without a backup plan. Funny how that stuck when so much else faded.
The driver didnt ask questions, just took me down the road to a little motel with a flickering sign and a cracked ice machine. The sort of place lorry drivers crash when the motorways frozen. Not charming, not cosy, but anonymous. I paid cash, signed a fake name, and clutched my bag to my chest like it could warm me.
Inside, the room smelled of lemon cleaner and wood panelling. The quilt was polyester. The bedside lamp buzzed like it was trying to remember how to shine. I didnt care. I stood in the middle of the room, dropped my bag, and whispered aloud for the first time since the funeral: You were right, Henry.
And then, softer, like I was saying it just to the dust motes: I knew this was coming.
The next morning, I sat on the edge of the motel bed, wrapped in one of those scratchy hotel towels, fingers curled around a lukewarm cup of lobby coffee. My bones ached, but not just from the walk. I was tired in a way sleep couldnt fix.
Then an uninvitedbut not unwelcomememory surfaced. Henry and me in our first spring at the B&B. Dirt still under our nails, hands sore from hauling stones. We planted six rose bushes out fronttwo red, two peach, two yellow. Henry said people should smell something sweet when they stepped out of their cars. First impressions matter.
That day, the sun caught the silver in his hair just right. He was laughing. James was small then, maybe seven, chasing a
