28 March
The rain had been falling the morning we laid Edward to rest. My little black umbrella could not shield the emptiness inside me. I stood trembling, incense smoldering between my fingers, watching the damp earth swallow the coffin. My companion of almost forty yearsmy dear Edwardhad become a shallow patch of cold soil.
There was no time for mourning.
Thomas, my eldest the one Edward trusted without questionsnatched the house keys before the mourners had even finished their tea.
Years before, when Edward was still strong, he had said, Were getting old. Put the title in Toms name so hell be responsible. So we transferred the cottage and the adjoining fields to our son.
On the seventh day after the burial, Tom suggested a drive to clear my head. I had no idea it would end with a knife in my back.
He pulled up beside an abandoned bus shelter on the outskirts and, flatfooted and final, told me, Get out here, Mum. My wife and I cant look after you any longer. 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 corner shop, clutching a canvas bag with a few garments. The cottage where I had nursed Edward and raised my children no longer belonged to me; the deed bore Toms name. I had no right to return.
They say a widow still has her children. Sometimes having children feels exactly like having none.
Tom had cornered me, but I was not emptyhanded.
In the pocket of my blouse lay a bank passbookour life’s savings, the money Edward and I had tucked away pound by pound, amounting to tens of thousands of pounds. We had 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 wouldnt beg. I wouldnt reveal a thing. I wanted to see what lifeand Tomwould do next.
That first evening, the shopkeeper, Mrs. Nenna, took pity and brought me a mug of hot tea. When I told her Edward had died and my children had left me, she sighed. Theres plenty of that now, love. Kids are better at counting pennies than showing affection.
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 whirr of our ceiling fan and the scent of Edwards ginger salad. The absence 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 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 the passbook for a heartbeat, then tucked it away again. That was my quiet insurance.
One afternoon I met an old friend, Mrs. Rosa, from my childhood. I told her only that Edward had passed and times were hard. She offered me a place in her family caféa meal and a cot in the back, in exchange for work. It was hard, honest, and it kept me fed. It gave me another reason to keep my secret close.
News of Tom 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 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 café one dayToms drinking companion. He stared at me for a long moment and asked, Are you Toms mother? I nodded.
He owes us hundreds of pounds, 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 he had been, dish rag in hand, thinking of my sonthe boy I had rocked to sleep, the man who had pushed me from the car. Was this justice? Was it punishment? I didnt know.
Months passed. Tom 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 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 wouldnt value it. Im giving it to you now. But listen to me: if you grind your mothers love under your heel again, no fortune will ever lift your head high.
Toms hands shook 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, has been toldexactly when it was needed.
