**Diary Entry**
The day we buried my husband, a soft rain fell. That little black umbrella couldnt shield the loneliness in my heart. I held a candle, staring at the freshly dug grave, the earth still damp, and trembled. My companion of nearly forty yearsmy Edwardhad turned into a handful of cold soil.
After the funeral, I had no time to drown in grief. My eldest son, James, whom my husband had trusted completely, wasted no time taking the house keys. Years ago, when Edward was still well, hed said, Were growing older. 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 deedseverything was in Jamess name.
On the seventh day after the funeral, James asked me to go for a drive. I never expected that ride to cut like a knife. The car stopped on the outskirts of Manchester, near a bus stop. His voice was cold: 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 firm, as if he wanted to push me out right then. I sat by the roadside near a pub, clutching just a bag of clothes. That housewhere Id lived, where Id cared for my husband and 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 is like having none at all. My own son had tossed me aside. Yet James didnt know one thing: I wasnt entirely helpless. In my pocket was a savings bookthe money Edward and I had quietly set aside over our lifetime, over £300,000. Wed kept it secret, not even telling our children. Edward used to say, People are only kind while you have something to offer.
That day, I chose silence. I wouldnt beg. I wouldnt reveal my secret. I wanted to see how Jamesand lifewould treat me.
The first night, I took shelter under the awning of a small café. The owner, Mrs. Wilkins, took pity and brought me a hot cup of tea. When I told her my husband had just died and my children had cast me out, she only sighed. You hear stories like this too often these days, love. Sometimes children care more for money than love.
I rented a tiny bedsit, paying with the interest from my account. I was carefulnever letting anyone know I had money. I lived simply: worn clothes, cheap bread and lentils, keeping my head down.
Many nights, I curled up on the narrow bed, remembering our old homethe hum of the ceiling fan, the scent of Edwards strong breakfast tea. The memories ached, but I told myself: as long as I breathe, I must keep going.
Slowly, I adjusted. By day, I asked for work at the marketwashing vegetables, carrying goods, wrapping parcels. The pay was little, but I didnt mind. I wanted to stand on my own feet, not rely on charity. The traders called me Mrs. Grace. They didnt know that when the market closed, Id return to my room, open my savings book, and hide it away again. That was my secret to survival.
One day, I ran into an old friendMargaret. Shocked to see me in the bedsit, I confessed my husband had passed and life had grown hard. She took pity and offered me work at her familys roadside café. I accepted. The work was tough, but I had meals and a place to sleep. And one more reason to keep my savings secret.
Meanwhile, word reached me about James. He lived in a big house with his wife and children, bought a new car, but gambled heavily. A neighbour whispered, Hes likely mortgaged the house. My heart ached, but I didnt reach out. Hed left his mother at a bus stopwhat more was there to say?
One evening, as I wiped tables, a well-dressed stranger came looking for me. His face was tense. I recognised himone of Jamess drinking mates. He stared hard. Youre Jamess mother? I nodded cautiously. He leaned in, voice low and urgent. He owes us thousands. Hes gone to ground. If you care, help him.
I froze. Then I smiled faintly. Ive nothing left to give. He left angry. But it made me think. I loved my son, but hed wounded me deeply. Hed abandoned me without mercy. Now he faced his punishmentwas that justice too?
Months later, James came to me. Gaunt, exhausted, eyes red. He fell to his knees, sobbing. Mum, I was wrong. Im a wretch. Please, save me just once. Otherwise, my familys ruined.
My heart raced. I remembered the nights Id wept silently for him, the day hed cast me out. But I also remembered Edwards last words: No matter what, hes still our son.
I stayed silent a long moment. Then I went to my room, took out the savings book with over £300,000, 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 let you hold your head up with dignity.
James took it, shaking, weeping like a storm.
I knew he might changeor he might not. But as his mother, Id done my last duty. And the secret of that savings book had finally been revealed, just when it was needed most.
