After my husbands funeral, my son drove me to a forest road and declared, This is where you belong.
I didnt cry when my husband died. Not because I didnt love himwed spent forty-two years together, through hardship, illness, and the few joys life had spared us. The tears were stuck deep inside, like a stone in my throat. They never camenot at the graveside, nor later when Mrs. Thompson from next door brought over a casserole and said, Stay strong, Margaret. I nodded politely, smiled, and shut the door.
Andrewmy sonstood beside me at the funeral. Tall, handsome, in a black suit that likely cost more than my pension for half a year. He held my elbow, the way well-bred families do. But his grip was cold. Not from the weatherfrom indifference. As if I were an obligation. A burden.
At the wake, he gave speeches. Flawless, rehearsed, with pauses for effect. Everyone nodded, praising, What a devoted son! So eloquent, so kind! I sat in the corner, watching his faceso familiar, yet so distant. His eyes were mine. His nose, his fathers. But his smile belonged to a stranger.
Three days later, he came to my house. I was making teamy husband always liked it strong, no sugar. Old habits linger. Andrew sat at the kitchen table and slid car keys and my passport toward me.
Mum, he said, Ive arranged a place for you. A care home. In the countryside. Quiet, peaceful, good care. Clean air, people your age. You shouldnt be alone in this house. After Dads illness You might
He didnt finish. But I understood. What he meant was, You might die. Or rather, You should die. Soon. Out of the way.
I sipped my tea. Hot enough to scald. But I drank it. To keep from shaking. From screaming. From throwing the cup at him.
The house, he continued, the business theyre mine now. Dad transferred everything to me a year ago. You know how he wasalways thinking ahead.
I did know. Id said nothing then, foolishly believing my son would care for me.
You understand, dont you? he pressed. You cant manage alone. Youre tired. Youre old.
He said it gently. Almost sympathetically. As if diagnosing me. As if I were a broken thing to discard.
When? I asked.
Hed expected tears, shouting. But I simply said, When?
Tomorrow morning. Ill drive you. Everythings settled. No need to packtheyll provide everything. Just take the essentials. And dont worry. Ill visit.
A lie. I knew he wouldnt.
The next morning, his Mercedes purred outside. I stepped out with one suitcasemy husbands photo, my passport, the savings Id hidden for years, and a notebook of recipes hed loved.
Andrew tossed the case into the boot like a sack of potatoes. He didnt speak as I climbed into the back seat. Just drove.
The city faded. Then the suburbs. Then forest. The road narrowed to dirt, bumpy and overgrown. Trees loomed. Silence pressed in.
Andrew, I asked, where exactly is this care home?
He waited. Then, over his shoulder: Youll see.
Twenty minutes later, he turned onto a dirt track. The car jolted over roots. My heart poundednot from the ride, but from dread.
He stopped. Got out. Opened my door.
I stepped into the wilderness. No buildings. No fences. Just trees. Dark. Watchful.
Here, he said. This is your place.
I stared. What do you mean?
You know. Its better this way. Quiet. No one to bother you. He set down a bagfood for a few days. After that? Youre resourceful.
The world went silent. White noise filled my head.
Youre leaving me here?
A shrug. Letting you go. Youll die soon anyway. Why cling to the house? The city? Youre a reminderof duty. Of guilt. I have my own life. A wife. Kids. They dont want a grandmother. Especially not a tired one.
He said it as casually as discussing the weather.
Andrew Im your mother.
You were, he corrected. Now youre a burden.
The engine roared. I lunged, grabbing the door. Wait! Ill give you everything! Just dont leave me!
The car lurched forward. I fell. My knee hit a rock. I screamed. Crawled. But he didnt look back.
Blood soaked my stocking. The pain was sharp, but the deeper ache was insidewhere my heart had been.
I opened the bag. Water. Sandwiches. A chocolate bar. A token. A way for him to say, I gave her a chance.
I ate. Drank. Stood.
Forest surrounded me. No paths. No people. Just animal trails and silence so thick it rang in my ears.
I walked. No direction. Just away.
Three days later, I found a road. A truck stopped. The drivera man with kind eyesasked, Where to, love?
I didnt know. The city. To my son.
He nodded, turned on the radio, and let me cry.
At the police station, the officer listened. Then sighed. Without proof, its not a crime. He didnt hurt you. Just left you.
I stared. So he can do it again?
If theres no evidence yes.
I went to the library. Learned. Wrote. To newspapers. To human rights groups. To anyone whod listen.
A week later, a journalist called. Tell your story. People should know.
The headline read: Son Abandons Mother in Woods: This Is Your Place.
Comments flooded in. Outrage. Tears. Demands for justice.
Andrew called, frantic. Mum, what have you done? I lost my job! My wife left! The kids are ashamed!
You left me in the woods, I said. I told the world. Fairs fair.
He begged. Promised the house, money.
Too late, I said. I dont want your money. I want you to understand. A mother isnt rubbish. Age isnt a death sentence. People arent things.
Silence. Thensobs. Real ones.
Forgive me, he whispered.
Bring me flowers, I said. Not money. Flowers. And say, Mum, I love you. Mean it. Then Ill forgive.
A week later, he came. Tulipsyellow, my favourite. He knelt. Wept. Kissed my hands.
Get up, I said. Im not God. Just your mother. And I forgive you.
Now I live by the sea. A small rented room. Gulls. Sunlight.
Andrew visits weekly. Brings food. Flowers. Talks about his children.
Hes changed. Or pretends to. Either way, I see the fear in his eyesof losing me again. Of being unforgiven.
I didnt move back. Didnt share his home. But I didnt cast him out. Because even the worst deserve redemption.
Some evenings, I sit on the balcony. Watch the waves. Think of my husband. How hed be proudnot that I survived, but that I didnt harden. Didnt break.
Im alive. Im strong. Im a mother.
My place isnt in the woods. Or a care home. Its where I choose.
Today, its by the sea. Tomorrow? Maybe the mountains. Maybe a flat with grandchildren. With tulips on the sill.
Because Im not a thing. Not a burden. Not just an old woman.
Im a person. And I have a right to life. To love. To respect.
Even if I was left in the woods.
Even if they said, This is your place.
I chose another place.
And thats my right.
