After my husbands funeral, my son drove me to the edge of the town and said, Thats where you get off, Mum. We cant keep looking after you any longer.
I kept my mouth shut. Id been protecting a secret for decadesone my ungrateful son would one day rue.
It drizzled the morning we laid Albert to rest. My tiny black umbrella could not shelter the emptiness inside me. I shivered, incense smouldering between my fingers, staring at the damp earth. My companion of almost forty yearsmy dear Alberthad turned into a cold lump of soil.
There was no time for tears.
James, my eldestthe one Albert trusted without questionsnatched the house keys before the mourners had even finished their tea.
Years earlier, while Albert was still in good health, he had said, Were getting on in years. Put the title in Jamess name so hell look after it.
What mother argues with love? We transferred the house and the garden to our son.
On the seventh day after the burial, James asked me out for a drive to clear his head. I had no idea I was being led to a backhanded knife.
He stopped by an abandoned bus shelter on the outskirts and said, flat as a pancake, Get out here. My wife and I cant have you any more. From now on, youre on your own.
My ears rang. The world tilted. His eyes were hard; he would have pushed me out if Id hesitated.
I found myself perched on a low stool outside a tiny shop, clutching a canvas bag with a few clothes. The house where I had nursed Albert and raised my children no longer belonged to me; the deed bore Jamess name. I had no right to return.
They say a widow still has her children. Sometimes having children feels exactly like having none.
James had cornered me. But I wasnt emptyhanded.
In the pocket of my blouse I kept a bank passbookour lifes savings, the money Albert and I had tucked away pound by pound, amounting to tens of millions. Not a soul knew. Not our children. Not our friends. No one.
People behave when they think you have nothing to give, Albert once told me. I chose silence that day. I wouldnt beg. I wouldnt spill a word. I wanted to see what lifeand Jameswould do next.
The first evening, the shopkeeper, Mrs. Nelly, took pity and brought me a cup of hot tea. When I told her Albert 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. Old clothes. Cheap food. No attention.
At night, curled on a wobbling wooden bed, I missed the creak of our ceiling fan and the scent of Alberts 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 lettuce, hauling sacks, wrapping produce. The pay was modest. It didnt matter. I wanted to stand on my own feet, not on anyones pity. Vendors began to call me Mum Teresa. 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 mentioned only that Albert had passed and times were tight. She offered me a spot in her family caféa room and a 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 James still reached me. He and his wife lived in a large house, drove a shiny new carand he gambled. I think hes already pawned the title, a neighbour whispered. My chest tightened, but I didnt call. He had left his mother at a roadside; what more could I say?
A man in a crisp shirt came to the café one dayJamess drinking companion. He stared at me for a long moment and asked, Youre Jamess 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 hed left me, dishcloth in hand, thinking of my sonthe boy Id rocked to sleep, the man whod pushed me from the car. Was this justice? Punishment? I didnt know.
Months slipped by. James finally appearedthin, holloweyed, unshaven. He fell to his knees as soon as he saw me.
Mum, 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 Alberts last words whispered in my mind: Whatever he becomes, he is still our son.
I stayed silent for a long while. Then I went to my room, took out the passbookour lifetime savingsand laid 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 trembled as he took the passbook. He wept like a boy caught in the rain.
Maybe he will change. Maybe he wont. But I have done what I could as a mother.
And the secret, at last, was toldexactly when it was needed.
