When the growl of the Mercedes engine finally faded among the trees, the silence settled over me like a thick blanket. I just stood there, my bag in hand, my knees trembling, every breath sharp. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, moss, and rotting leaves. The birds had gone quiet. It was as if the forest itself knew: something was very wrong.
I didnt shout anymore. The tears, which hadnt come at the funeral, spilled over on their own. Not from grief. From humiliation. From the realisation that my own flesh and bloodmy sonhad tossed me aside like an old piece of furniture.
I sat on a fallen log, trying to gather my thoughts. The sun had begun its slow descent, the light turning golden, the shadows stretching long. In the silence, all I could hear was my own heartbeat. I knew if I stayed here, Id die. But I refused to give him the satisfaction.
I pulled out the photograph of my husband from my bag. His face, that familiar, gentle smile, looked back at me.
“You see, John,” I whispered. “This is what you raised. This is the ‘good lad’ you were so proud of.”
A tear fell onto the picture. And in that moment, something inside me snapped. It wasnt fear that took overit was will. That stubborn, country-womans will that had carried me through my whole life.
I stood up. If he thought Id just waste away quietly out here, he was wrong. Id survived the war, the rationing, the inflation, the hospitals. Id survive this too.
I walked. I dont know how long. The woods were thick, branches snapping underfoot. My shoes were caked in mud, my heart pounding in my throat. Then, in the distancea rustle, then the outline of a small wooden hut. An abandoned hunters cabin, its roof sagging, windows boarded up, but dry inside. I found an old blanket, lay down on a bench, and as the night deepened, lulled by the hoot of an owl, I slept.
I woke at dawn. Every bone ached, but my mind was clear. I knew what I had to do: go back to the city. Not for revenge. For justice. Because the boy who could leave his own mother in the woods was no longer human. And such men need to be reminded that life always collects its debts.
I wandered for hours before finally hearing the distant hum of traffic. Stumbling onto the road, a lorry slowed down. The driver, a moustached man in his sixties, gaped at me.
“Christ, love, what are you doing out here?”
“Going home,” I said quietly. “Only my son forgot to take me back.”
He didnt ask more. He helped me into the cab and drove me to the city. I went straight to the police. The young sergeant stared at me in disbelief.
“Maam, youre serious? Youre saying your son abandoned you in the woods? Surely theres been some mistake?”
I pulled out my phonethe old, button kind. I showed him the only photo Id managed to take from inside the car: the black Mercedes disappearing among the trees.
“I dont think this is a mistake, young man,” I said.
The story spread fast. My face was on the front pages: “Wealthy businessmans son leaves elderly mother in the woods.” Neighbours, friends, the ladies from the churcheveryone was talking. Andrews photo from the funeral, in his black suit, now meant something else entirely: coldness, shame.
When he was finally called in, he looked pale, jittery. We met in the corridor.
“Mum why would you do this to me? Its over. My business, my reputationeverything!”
I looked at him. There was no guilt in his eyes, only fear.
“It was over for me too, son,” I said softly. “I just chose to stay alive.”
The investigation dragged on for weeks. He hired lawyers, tried to explain it as a “misunderstanding,” that hed “panicked.” He even apologised, but I knewit wasnt for me. It was to scrub the shame off himself.
In the end, the court found him guilty. Endangering life, abandonment of a vulnerable person. Eighteen months suspended, a fine, community service. By the laws measure, a light sentence. But the real punishment came later.
As we left the courthouse, he stopped at the top of the steps. He looked at me, hollow-eyed.
“Youve ruined my life,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“No, son,” I replied. “You ruined it yourself. I just walked out of those woods.”
I never saw him again. He sold the house, moved abroad. They say hes still out there, somewhere in Germany.
I stayed. In the same flat hed once tried to take from me. I redecorated.
The walls are a fresh colour now, geraniums in the window. Every morning, I brew a cup of coffeestrong, with milk, no sugar. And I always set out two cups. One for my husband.
On the windowsill, theres a small white pebble. The same one I scraped my knee on when I fell in that forest. A reminder. Not of the painof the strength.
Because growing old doesnt start when they throw you away. It starts when you believe theres no life left in you.
I never believed it.
And thats why Im still here.
