When the rumble of the Mercedes engine faded into the trees, the silence settled over me like a heavy blanket. I just stood there, clutching my bag, knees trembling, every breath sharp with pain. The air smelled of damp earth, moss, and rotting leaves. Even the birds had gone quietlike the forest itself knew something was terribly wrong.
I didnt shout anymore. The tears I hadnt shed at the funeral finally came, but not from grief. From humiliation. Because I realisedmy own son had tossed me aside like an old piece of furniture.
I sat on a fallen log, trying to gather my thoughts. The sun dipped lower, staining the light yellow, stretching the shadows. All I could hear was my own heartbeat. I knewif I stayed there, Id die. But I refused to give him that satisfaction.
I pulled out a photo of my husband from my bag. His familiar, kind smile looked back at me.
“See this, James?” I whispered. “This is what you raised. This is the good lad you were so proud of.”
A tear splashed onto the picture. And in that moment, something inside me clicked. It wasnt fear that took overit was sheer stubbornness. That tough, countrywomans will that had carried me through my whole life.
I stood up. If he thought Id just fade away quietly, he didnt know me at all. Id survived the war, the rationing, the hospitals. Id survive this too.
I walked. Dont know how long. The forest was thick, twigs snapping underfoot. My shoes were caked in mud, my heart pounding in my throat. Then, in the distancea rustle, then the outline of a little wooden hut. An old hunting lodge, abandoned. Half-rotted roof, boarded-up windows, but dry inside. I found an old blanket. Lay down on a bench and fell asleep to the hoot of an owl in the dead of night.
Dawn came. Every bone ached, but my mind was clear. I knew what I had to dogo back to the city. Not for revenge. For justice. Because the man who could leave his own mother in the woods wasnt a man at all. And men like that need to learn life doesnt let debts go unpaid.
Hours passed as I wandered, until finally, I heard the distant hum of traffic. Stumbled onto the road. A lorry slowed down. The driver, a bloke in his sixties with a thick moustache, gaped at me.
“Bloody hell, love, what are you doing out here?”
“Going home,” I said softly. “My son just forgot to take me back.”
He didnt ask questions. Just helped me in and drove me to town. I went straight to the police. The young sergeant stared at me in disbelief.
“Maam, youre serious? Your son left you in the woods? Mustve been some misunderstanding.”
I pulled out my phonean old button one. Showed him the only photo Id taken as the car drove off: the black Mercedes disappearing into the trees.
“Dont think this is a misunderstanding, son,” I said.
The story spread fast. My face was in the papers: “Wealthy businessman abandons elderly mother in woods.” Neighbours, friends, even the church ladieseveryone talked. And suddenly, photos of Andrew at the funeral, in his sharp black suit, meant something else. Coldness. Shame.
When they finally called him in, he was pale, sweating. We met in the hallway.
“Mum why would you do this to me? Youve ruined everything. My business, my reputationeverything!”
I looked at him. No guilt in his eyesjust fear.
“I was ruined too, son,” I said quietly. “Only I chose to stay alive.”
The investigation dragged on. He hired lawyers, spun it as a “misunderstanding,” that hed “panicked.” Even apologised, but I knewhe wasnt sorry for me. Just wanted to wipe the stain off himself.
The court found him guilty. Endangering life, abandoning a vulnerable person. Eighteen months suspended, a fine, community service. Legally, a light sentence. But the real punishment came later.
Outside the courthouse, he stopped on the steps. Looked at me, empty-eyed.
“You ruined my life,” he barely whispered.
“No, son,” I said. “You ruined yours. I just walked out of those woods.”
Never saw him again. He sold the flat, moved abroad. Some say hes still in Germany now.
I stayed. In the same flat hed tried to take from me. Did it up fresh.
New paint on the walls, geraniums in the window. Every morning, I brew a strong cup of teamilk, no sugar. And I always set out two cups. One for my husband.
On the windowsill, theres a tiny white pebble. The same one that cut my knee when I fell in the woods. A reminder. Not of the painof the strength.
Because getting old doesnt start when someone throws you away. It starts when you believe theres nothing left in you.
I never believed that.
And thats why Im still here.
