After my husbands funeral, my son drove me to a forest road and said, This is your place now.
I didnt cry when my husband was buried. Not because I didnt love himwed been together for forty-two years, through thick and thin, through sickness and the few joys life had given us. The tears were stuck deep inside, like a stone in my throat. They wouldnt comenot at the graveside, not later when the neighbour brought a casserole and said, Stay strong, Valerie. I nodded, smiled politely, and closed the door.
Andrewmy sonstood beside me at the funeral. Tall, polished, in an expensive black suit that probably cost more than my pension for half a year. He held my elbow like a dutiful son from a respectable family should. But his touch was cold. Not from the weatherfrom indifference. As if I were an obligation, not his mother. A burden.
At the wake, he gave speeches. Spoke well, loudly, with pauses and gestures. Everyone nodded, praised him: What a fine son! So handsome! So clever! I sat in the corner and watched him. His faceso familiar, yet so distant. His eyes were mine. His nose, his fathers. His smileforeign. The smile of someone whod stopped being my son long ago.
Three days after the funeral, he came to see me. I was making coffeestrong, with milk, no sugar, just as my husband had liked it. Old habits. Andrew sat at the kitchen table, slid the car keys and my passport toward me.
Mum, he said, Ive thought it through. Youll be better off in a care home. In the countryside. Quiet, cosy, good care. Clean air, people your age. No need for you to live alone. You saw how Dad was at the end You could
He didnt finish. But I understood. He meant, *You could die too.* Or rather: *You should die. Soon. So you wont be a bother.*
I stayed silent. Drank my coffee. Scalded my lips. But I drank itso I wouldnt shake, scream, or throw the cup at him.
The flat, he started, and the business theyre mine now. Dad transferred everything to me a year ago. You know he always looked out for me. Didnt want any arguments.
I knew. I knew my husband had signed everything over without asking me. I hadnt protested. Thought, *Let him have it. As long as he cares for me.* Foolish old woman.
You understand, dont you? he went on. You dont belong there alone. You cant manage. Youre tired. Youre old.
He said it gently. Almost kindly. Like a diagnosis. Like I was a broken thing, ready to be thrown away.
When? I asked.
Hed expected tears, screams, threats. But I only said, When?
Tomorrow morning, he replied. Ill pick you up. Its all arranged. No need to packtheyll have everything. Just take the essentials. And dont worry. Ill visit. Of course.
He lied. I knew he wouldnt. Not once.
In the morning, he pulled up in his Mercedes. I walked out with a suitcaseinside, a photo of my husband, my passport, the little money Id saved over the years, and a notebook of recipes. The ones hed loved.
Andrew tossed my case into the boot like a sack of potatoes. Opened the car door. I sat in the back. He didnt even say, Lets go. Just started the engine and drove off.
We didnt speak. The city faded behind us. Then the suburbs. Then the forest. The road narrowed into dirt tracks, bumpy and uneven. I stared out the window. Trees. Silence. Birds. Beauty. Fear.
Andrew, I said, where exactly is this home?
He didnt answer at first. Then, over his shoulder: Youll see.
Twenty minutes later, he turned onto a dirt path. The car jolted over roots. I gripped the door handle. My heart poundednot from the ride, but from dread.
He stopped the car. Got out. Opened my door. I stepped onto the ground. No people. No buildings. No fences. Just forest. Thick, dark, wordless.
Here, he said. Your place.
I looked around. At him. At his face. Calm. Almost pleased.
What do you mean, my place? I asked.
Exactly that, he said. You know. Youll be better off here. Quiet. Peaceful. No one to trouble you.
He set a bag beside me. Enough food for a couple of days. After that well, youre a smart woman. Youll figure it out.
I froze. White noise in my head. Like the world had gone mute.
Youre leaving me here? In the woods?
He shrugged.
Not leaving. Just letting go. Youll be gone soon anyway. Why do you need the flat? The city? Youre in my way. Honestly. Youre a reminderof what Im supposed to feel. And I dont want to. I have my own life. A wife, kids they dont want a grandmother around. Especially not one whos worn out.
He said it lightly. Like reading a shopping list.
Andrew, I whispered. Im your mother.
Were, he corrected. Now youre a burden. Sorry. But this is best for everyone.
He got in the car. Started the engine. I lunged for the door, grabbed the handle.
Andrew! Wait! Ill give you everything! The flat, the money, all of it! Just dont leave me here!
He hit the accelerator. The car lurched forward. I fell. Scraped my knee on a rock. Screamed. Crawled after him. He didnt look back.
I sat on the ground. Held my knee. Blood seeped through my tights. The pain was therebut deeper. Where my heart used to be.
I opened the bag. Water, sandwiches, a chocolate bar. Andrew mustve decided I shouldnt die *right away*. So his conscience could rest. So he could say, *I gave her a chance.*
I ate the chocolate. Drank the water. Stood up. Looked around.
Forest. Nothing but forest. No roads. No paths. No footprints. Just animal tracks. And silence. So heavy it rang in my ears.
I walked. No direction. Maybe toward a road. Maybe toward a river. Maybe toward death. I didnt care.
An hour later, I found a stream. Clear, narrow. Drank from my hands. Washed my face. Stared at my reflection. Grey hair. Wrinkles. Empty eyes. Like no one was left inside.
*Youre old,* hed said.
Yes. But not dead.
I spent the night under a pine tree. Curled up. Covered with my coat. Shakingnot from cold, but from rage. From hurt.
I thought of my husband. His laugh. How he made me mint tea when I was ill. How he held my hand when I was scared. How hed say, *Youre my rock.* Now I was nothing. Discarded. Trash.
But I didnt want to die. Not here. Not like this.
At dawn, I walked on. All day. No goal. Just moving. To keep from sitting. From going mad.
On the third day, I found a road. Dirt, not asphalt. But a road. People came here. I followed it.
An hour latera lorry. The driver stopped. A man in his fifties, kind-faced.
Where to, love? he asked.
I didnt know what to say. The city. To my son.
He nodded. Opened the door.
Hop in.
I rode in silence. He didnt press. Just turned on the radio. An old song played. I closed my eyes. Cried. Quietly. The tears that hadnt come for three days now flowed like a river.
He dropped me at the bus station.
Here, he said, handing me a bottle of water and a sandwich. Dont fret. Thingsll sort themselves.
I nodded. Said thanks. Got out.
In the city, I went to the police. Told them everything. No embellishments. No tears. Just facts.
The officer listened. Wrote it down. Shook his head.
You understand we cant do much without proof? He didnt hit you. Didnt threaten you. Just left you in the woods. You survived. Thats good. But its not a crime. Not legally.
I stared at him. At his uniform. At his indifferent eyes.
So he can do it again? To someone else? And nothing will happen?
Without proofyes, he said. Try a solicitor. Or social services. Maybe they can help with housing.
I walked out. Stood in the street. A light rain began. People hurried past. No one glanced at the old woman with a bag.
I went to the library. Free internet. I searched. Read. Learned. Wrote lettersto the Crown Prosecution Service, to human rights groups, to the press. Everywhere.
A week later, a local paper called. A journalist. Young. Eyes bright.
Valerie, tell us everything. Well publish it. People should know.
I told her. No embellishments. No tears. Just facts.
The article ran three days later. Headline: *Son Abandons Mother in Woods: This Is Your Place.*
My photofrom the wake. A grey dress. Empty eyes.
Within hourshundreds of comments. Thousands of shares. People outraged. Crying. Demanding justice.
The next dayAndrew called.
Mum, his voice shook, what have you done?!
Ive lived, I said.
Youre ruining me! I lost my job! My wife left! The kids are ashamed to go to school! Do you realise what youve done?!
I do, I said. You left me in the woods. I told the world. Fairs fair.
IIll come. Take you back. Give you everythingthe flat, the money, all of it!
Too late, I said. I dont want your flat. I want you to understand. A mother isnt rubbish. Old age isnt a death sentence. A person isnt a thing.
He went quiet. Thensobbing. Real. For the first time in his life.
Im sorry, he whispered.
Ill forgive you, I said. Come see me. Bring flowers. Not money. Not the flat. Flowers. And say, Mum, I love you. Ill believe youif you mean it.
He came a week later. Yellow tulipsmy favourite. Knelt. Cried. Kissed my hands.
I watched him. His tears. His fear. His regret.
Get up, I said. Im not God. Im your mother. And I forgive you.
Now I dont live in a care home. Or his flat. I rent a small room by the sea. Balcony. Seagulls. Sunsets.
Andrew visits every week. Brings food. Flowers. Tells me about the kids. His job. His life.
Hes changed. Or pretends to. I dont care. I see his eyesthe fear there. Fear of losing me again. Fear of being unforgiven.
I didnt go back to him. Didnt live under his roof. But I didnt cast him out. Because everyone deserves redemption. Even a son who left his mother in the woods.
Sometimes at dusk, I step onto the balcony. Watch the sea. Think of my husband. How hed be proud. Not that I survivedbut that I didnt turn bitter. Didnt break. Didnt become what he wantedquiet, obedient, forgotten.
Im alive. Im strong. Im a mother.
And my place isnt in the woods. Not in a care home. But where *I* choose.
Todayby the sea. Tomorrowmaybe the mountains. Or a new flat. With grandchildren. With my son. With tulips on the windowsill.
Because Im not a thing. Not a burden. Not old.
Im a person. And I have the right to live. To love. To respect.
Even if I was left in the woods.
Even if they said, This is your place.
I chose a different place.
And thats my right.
