When the roar of the Jaguars engine finally vanished among the trees, the silence settled over me like a heavy blanket. I stood there, clutching my handbag, my knees trembling, every breath sharp with pain. The air smelled of damp earth, moss, and rotting leaves. Even the birds had gone quiet, as if the forest itself knew something was terribly wrong.
I didnt shout anymore. The tears that hadnt come at the funeral now spilled freelynot from grief, but from humiliation. The realisation that my own flesh and bloodmy sonhad just discarded me like an old piece of furniture.
I sank onto a fallen log, trying to gather my thoughts. The sun dipped lower, casting golden light through the trees, stretching the shadows long. The only sound was my own heartbeat. I knew if I stayed, I would die. But I refused to give him that satisfaction.
From my bag, I pulled out a photograph of my late husband. His face, his familiar, kind smile, looked back at me.
You see, Arthur, I whispered. This is what you raised. This is the good lad you were so proud of.
A tear fell onto the photo. And in that moment, something inside me clicked. It wasnt fear that took holdit was will. That stubborn, country-womans will that had carried me through war, rationing, hard winters, and hospitals. Id survive this too.
I stood. If he thought Id wither away quietly in these woods, he didnt know me at all.
I walked. I dont know how long. The forest was dense, branches snapping underfoot. My shoes were caked in mud, my heart pounding in my throat. Thena rustle, and in the distance, the outline of a small wooden hut. An abandoned gamekeepers lodge. The roof sagged, the windows were boarded, but inside was dry. I found an old blanket, lay down on a bench, and slept to the sound of owls hooting in the night.
At dawn, I woke. Every bone ached, but my mind was clear. I knew what I had to do: go back to the city. Not for revengefor justice. Because the boy who could leave his own mother in the woods was no longer a man. And men like that needed to learn life doesnt leave debts unpaid.
I wandered for hours before the distant hum of traffic reached me. Stumbling onto the country lane, I flagged down a lorry. The driver, a grizzled man in his sixties, gaped at me.
Bloody hell, love, what on earth are you doing out here?
Going home, I said quietly. Only my son forgot to take me back.
He didnt ask questions. He drove me to town.
At the police station, a young sergeant frowned at me.
Maam, youre serious? Youre saying your son abandoned you in the woods? It wasnt just a misunderstanding?
I took out my old flip phone, showed him the only photo Id managed to takethe black Jaguar disappearing between the trees.
Does that look like a misunderstanding, young man?
The story spread fast. My face was in the papers: *Wealthy businessman leaves elderly mother to die in forest.* Neighbours, friends, even the church ladieseveryone talked. Daniels photo, taken at the funeral in his sharp black suit, now stood for something else: cruelty and shame.
When he was finally called in, he was pale, sweating. We met in the corridor.
Mum why would you do this to me? My business, my reputationits all ruined!
I looked hard at him. In his eyes, I saw no guiltonly fear.
I was ruined too, son, I said softly. Only I chose to live.
The investigation dragged on. He hired solicitors, claimed it was all a misunderstanding, that hed panicked. He even apologised, but I knewhe wasnt sorry for what hed done. He was sorry hed been caught.
The court found him guilty. Endangering life, abandonment of a vulnerable person. Eighteen months probation, a hefty fine, community service. Legally, a light sentence. But the real punishment came later.
As we left the courthouse, he stopped at the top of the steps, staring at me with empty eyes.
Youve destroyed my life, he muttered.
No, Daniel, I said. You did that yourself. I just walked out of those woods.
I never saw him again. He sold his flat, moved abroadGermany, they say.
I stayed. In the same house he once tried to take from me. I had it repainted.
The walls are a fresh cream now, geraniums in the windows. Every morning, I brew a strong cup of teamilk, no sugar. And I always set out two cups. One for Arthur.
On the windowsill sits a small white pebblethe same one that cut my knee when I fell on that forest path. A reminder. Not of pain, but of strength.
Because old age doesnt begin when youre thrown away. It begins when you believe theres no life left in you.
I never believed it.
And thats why Im still here.
