When the hum of the Mercedes engine fades among the trees, the forest quiet settles over me like a heavy blanket. I stand, gripping the handle of my handbag, knees trembling, chest tight from held breath. The air smells of damp, rotting leaves and earth. Even the birds have gone silent. Only the wind rustles softly through the branches, as if it too fears breaking the peace.
I do not shout. I cannot.
The tears I held back at the funeral now spill on their ownnot from sorrow but from humiliation, from the realization that my own child has discarded me like rubbish.
I sit on a fallen oak and stare into nothing. The sun is already slipping behind the trees, shadows lengthen, and inside my chest two forces battlefear and stubbornness. In that moment I decide: I will not die here. I will not give him that satisfaction.
I open my bag and pull out a photograph of Andrew. His calm, masculine smile looks straight into my eyes.
Do you see, Andrew, I whisper, this is how our son grew up. This is the man you raised.
A tear falls onto the picture and runs down his face. In that instant something inside me turns. No fear, no despaironly strength. The strength that has carried me all my life.
I stand.
If he thought I would surrender, he is lying. I have survived war, hunger, illness, solitude. I will survive this too.
I start walking. I dont know how long I trek. Branches scratch me, my shoes stick in the mud, but I keep moving. Step by step, breath by breath.
When dusk settles, I spot a small wooden hut between the trees. Its roof leans, a window is broken, yet inside it is dry. I find an old blanket and collapse onto a bench. I fall asleep to the hoot of an owl.
I wake at sunrise. My body aches, but my mind is clear: I must return to the city. Not to exact revenge, but to prove I will not break. To show that justice exists.
I walk for hours until I finally hear the distant hum of traffic. I step onto the road and raise my hand. An old lorry stops. The drivera stout man with a whitegraying beardlooks at me bewildered:
Miss, what are you doing out here?
Im going home, I say quietly. Only my son forgot to pick me up.
He asks nothing more. He helps me into the cab and drives me to London. From there I head straight to the police station. The onduty officera young man with kind eyeslistens carefully, though hesitantly.
Mrs. Blythe, are you sure this isnt a misunderstanding? Perhaps he took a wrong turn and meant to bring you back?
I pull out my old buttonphone and show him the picture I took just before he left me: the black Mercedes disappearing among the trees.
Thats the misunderstanding, lad, I say.
The news spreads within hours.
Businessman abandons elderly mother in forest after fathers funeral, reads the tabloids. TV repeats it, and neighbours gossip on their balconies. In the picture is my son, the same one who days before gave a speech as a model son. Now his face is a mask of shame.
When they summon him to the station, he looks pale. When he sees me in the hallway, his eyes fill with malice, not shame.
Mother, why did you do it? he whispers. You ruined my life! The business, the family, everything is gone!
My life ended too, Andrew, I reply calmly. But I chose to keep living.
The investigation drags on for weeks. He hires a lawyer, tries to soften everything: claim it was a mistake, that I misread the situation, that I didnt understand. He even comes to apologisenot out of remorse, but out of fear.
The court finds him guiltyabandonment of an elderly person in danger. He receives a year and a half of suspended sentence, community service, and a fine of £2,000. Small. But the real punishment isnt in the courtroom.
After the trial he stands on the steps outside, staring blankly.
You destroyed my life, he says softly.
No, son, I answer. You did that yourself. I merely walked out of the woods.
I never see him again. He sells the flat and moves to Germany. They say he lives there now. I dont want to know.
I stay. In the same flat we once shared, now refurbished. Pictures line the walls, dust gathers on the windowsills. Every morning I brew two coffeesstrong, a splash of milk, no sugar. One for me, one for Andrew.
On the doorstep lies a small stone.
The same one I knocked my knee against when I fell on that forest path. A remindernot of pain, but of strength.
Because real old age doesnt begin when youre abandoned.
And not when you convince yourself you cant get up again.
I got up.
And since then I have never broken again.
