**”Go Away and Don’t Bother”: A Mother’s Final Journey**
We lived a long, uneven life together, Michael and I—like an old country lane full of potholes and bumps, sunshine and storms. Natalie always believed that with her husband by her side, no trouble could break her. They held on through over forty years. Poverty, a house fire, the deaths of their two eldest sons… So much endured, always in silence, hands clasped tight. Only the youngest remained—Paul. Their last hope, their light in the dark. He grew up, got his degree, moved to a big city—Manchester. He wrote often, visited rarely, but Natalie understood. Work, responsibilities—he’d become an important man, after all.
When Michael died—his heart gave out during one of January’s bitter gales—Natalie felt truly orphaned. The village house grew hollow, snow gathering on the roof like a shroud. Paul insisted she move to the city, into the flat he’d bought after marrying Milena—a sharp, glamorous woman who wore perfume like armour.
The flat was grand: five rooms, gleaming hardwood, all the latest gadgets, even a talking coffee maker. But to Natalie, everything felt foreign—even the air. She was given a small room at the end of the hall. Not quite a cage, but not a home either. She sat there quietly, like a mouse, afraid to make a sound.
“Just don’t get in the way,” Paul murmured once. “Milena’s not used to having… others around.”
Natalie stayed silent. She barely spoke at all anymore. Paul visited sometimes, but seldom. Milena? She acted as if Natalie didn’t exist, passing her with the same expression one might wear stepping over a stain.
One evening, Paul asked his mother to join them for dinner. Natalie changed her dress, smoothed her hair, sat at the table. Then Milena, pouring wine, laughed too loudly—”Well, look who’s crawled out of the past! Do you even know how to use the microwave, or do you still cook over an open fire in the countryside?”
Her laughter cut like shattered glass. Paul said nothing. Natalie lowered her eyes.
Later, she overheard what wasn’t meant for her ears.
“Paul, how much longer is this going to last? I’m embarrassed! My friends won’t even visit—they’re afraid of that ghost shuffling around the flat!”
“But she’s harmless… she just sits there…”
“Her very existence bothers me! How old is she, eighty? She should just die quietly and stop ruining our lives!”
“How can you say that? She’s my mother!”
“And what has she ever given you? You might feed a rat in the cellar, but no one lives with one!”
Natalie pressed her hands over her ears. She sat like that for hours in the dark, her soul weeping. She’d thought she’d raised a good man. That she’d given him everything. But all she was now was a burden.
She didn’t sleep that night. She sorted through her thoughts, her few belongings, her memories. The money from selling the cottage—she’d kept it in the bank, meaning to give it to Paul. Maybe help with the mortgage. But he’d said, “Mum, don’t be silly—we bought everything outright.”
By morning, she’d made her choice. She would leave. Quietly, kindly. The way she’d lived.
She packed a small bundle—a shawl, a Bible, a warm jumper, and a little cash. Slipped out before dawn, careful not to let the floorboards creak. Wandered the streets until she found the train station. Bought a ticket to the countryside. Then another, to a monastery near York.
She’d known of the place for years. Once read about it in a church pamphlet, but always held back—thinking Paul might need her, that grandchildren would come. But no grandchildren came. And no one needed her.
At the monastery, they welcomed her without question. Just held her and said, “Stay with us. God will provide.”
First, they gave her a simple cell—an icon on the wall, a narrow bed, a quilt. Then, a young novice named Ruth was assigned to help her. The girl read prayers aloud, brought tea, steadied her when she walked. Natalie gave the monastery everything she had—her money, her grandmother’s ring, the shawl she’d knitted years ago. All for peace. For quiet.
And there, for the first time in decades, she felt not like a shadow, but simply a woman. The soft glow of candles, the scent of incense, the stillness… it soothed her soul. She sat by the window, knitting socks, reciting psalms. Lit candles in the chapel—one for Michael’s soul, one for Paul’s health. One even for Milena.
“Forgive them, Lord,” she whispered. “They don’t know what they do.”
A year later, as autumn leaves fell from the monastery’s oaks, Natalie took her vows. They named her Sister Seraphina.
She passed in December, after morning prayers. They found her in her cell—hands folded, eyes closed, the last candle burned to its base.
Paul didn’t come to the funeral. Sent money instead. But the monks said, “Sister Seraphina was a mother to us. We’ll see her home.”
Now, a plain wooden cross stands over her grave. An old tabby cat, the one she used to feed, basks in the sun beside it. And if you listen, the wind in the branches seems to whisper:
“Go away and don’t bother…” No, you didn’t fade away, mother. You found your peace.
