After my husbands funeral, my son drove me to a forest road and declared, “This is your place now.”
I didnt cry when my husband died. Not because I didnt love himwed spent forty-two years together, weathered poverty, illness, and the rare joys life had tossed our way. The tears were stuck somewhere deep inside, like a stone in my throat. They wouldnt comenot at the graveside, not later when the neighbour brought over a casserole and said, “Stay strong, Margaret.” I nodded, smiled politely, and shut the door.
Andrewmy sonstood beside me at the funeral. Tall, well-dressed in an expensive black suit, probably worth more than six months of my pension. He held my elbow, the way proper 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. Spoke well, with pauses and gestures. Everyone nodded, praised him: “What a son! So handsome, so clever!” I sat in the corner and watched his faceso familiar, yet so strange. His eyes were mine. His nose, his fathers. His smile? A strangers. The smile of a man whod stopped being my son long ago.
Three days later, he came to my flat. I was brewing coffeestrong, with milk, no sugar, just as my husband had liked it. Old habits. Andrew sat at the kitchen table, placed car keys and my passport in front of me.
“Mum,” he said, “Ive arranged everything. Youd be better off in a care home. In the countryside. Quiet, peaceful, proper care. Clean air, people your age. No need to be alone here. After Dads illness You could”
He didnt finish. But I understood. He meant, *You could die*. Or rather, *You should die. Soon. So youre not in my way.*
I stayed silent. Drank my coffee. Scalded my lips. But I drank itto keep from shaking, from screaming, from throwing the cup at him.
“The flat the business theyre mine now,” he continued. “Dad transferred everything to me last year. You know he always thought of me first. Didnt want any disputes.”
I knew. Id known my husband had signed everything over to Andrew without asking me. I hadnt protested. Foolishly, Id thought, *Let him have it. As long as he stays close. As long as he cares.*
“You understand,” he went on, “its no place for you here. You cant manage alone. Youre tired. Youre old.”
He said that last word softly. Almost kindly. Like a diagnosis. Like I was a broken thing, ready for the bin.
“When?” I asked.
Hed probably expected tears, shouting, threats. I just said, “When?”
“Tomorrow morning,” he replied. “Ill drive you. Its all arranged. No need to pack muchtheyve got everything there.” He hesitated. “Ill visit. Of course.”
A lie. I knew he wouldnt. Not once.
The next morning, he pulled up in his Mercedes. I stepped out with a suitcaseinside, my husbands photo, my passport, a bit of cash Id secretly saved for years, and a notebook of recipes. The ones hed loved.
Andrew tossed the case in the boot like a sack of potatoes, then opened the back door for me. No word, just the engine starting.
We drove in silence. The city faded, then the suburbs, then only trees. The road narrowed to dirt, bumpy and uneven. I watched the forest passquiet, beautiful, terrifying.
“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 track. The car jolted over roots. I gripped the door handle. My heart poundednot from the ride, but from dread.
He stopped, got out, opened my door. I stepped onto the moss. No buildings. No fences. Just trees, thick and silent.
“Here,” he said. “Your place.”
I looked around, then at him. His face was calm. Almost pleased.
“What do you mean, *my place*?”
“Exactly that,” he said. “You know. Peaceful. Quiet. No one to bother you.”
He set down a bag beside meenough food for a couple of days. After that? Well, I was a clever woman. Id figure it out.
I stood frozen. White noise filled my head, as if the world had gone mute.
“Youre leaving me? Here? In the woods?”
He shrugged. “Not leaving. Just letting go. Youll be gone soon anyway. What do you need a flat for? A city? Youre in my way. Honestly. Youre a reminderthat Im supposed to *feel* something. I dont want to. Ive got my own life. A wife, kids they dont want a grandmother around. Especially one whos worn out.”
He said it lightly. Like reading a grocery list.
“Andrew” I whispered. “Im your mother.”
“*Were*,” he corrected. “Now youre dead weight. Sorry. But this is best for everyone.”
He got in the car. The engine roared. I grabbed the door handle.
“Wait! Ill give it all backthe flat, the money! Just dont leave me here!”
He hit the accelerator. I fell, scraped my knee on a rock. Screamed. Crawled after the car. He didnt look back.
I sat on the ground, clutching 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 had given me a chance to die slowly. So his conscience could stay clean.
I ate the chocolate. Drank the water. Stood up.
Forest. Nothing but forest. No roads, no paths, no footprints. Just animal trails. And silence, so thick it rang in my ears.
I walked. No direction. Maybe toward a road, a river, deathI didnt care.
Hours later, I found a stream. Clear, narrow. I drank from my hands, washed my face, stared at my reflectiongrey hair, wrinkles, hollow eyes.
“*Youre old*,” hed said.
True. But not dead.
I slept under a pine, curled in my coat, shakingnot from cold, but rage.
I thought of my husband. His laugh. How hed brew mint tea when I was ill. How hed held my hand when I was afraid. How hed called me his anchor. Now? I was nothing. Discarded. Trash.
But I wouldnt die here. Not like this.
At dawn, I walked. All day. No purpose. Just moving.
On the third day, I found a dirt track. A road. People came here. I followed it.
A lorry stopped. The driver, a man in his fifties with a kind face, leaned out.
“Need a lift, love?”
I didnt know what to say. “To town. To my son.”
He nodded. Opened the door.
The radio played an old song. I closed my eyes. Finally, the tears camethe ones that had been stuck for days.
He dropped me at the bus station. Handed me a bottle of water and a sandwich. “Dont worry. Thingsll sort themselves.”
I went to the police. Told them everything. Just facts.
The officer listened, took notes, shook his head.
“Without proof, theres nothing we can do. He didnt hurt you. Just left you. You survived. Thats good. But legally? Its not a crime.”
I stared at his uniform, his indifferent eyes.
“So he can do it again? To someone else?”
“Without evidence? Yes.” He shrugged. “Try social services. Maybe theyll help with housing.”
I walked out. The drizzle started. People hurried past. No one looked at an old woman with a bag.
At the library, I used the free internet. Learned how to write lettersto the prosecutors office, human rights groups, newspapers. I sent them all.
A week later, a journalist called. Young, eager.
“Margaret, tell me everything. People should know.”
I did. No drama. Just facts.
The article ran three days later: *”Son Abandons Mother in Woods: This Is Your Place Now.”*
My photofrom the wake. Grey dress. Empty eyes.
Within hours, hundreds of comments. Thousands of shares. Outrage, tears, demands for justice.
The next day, Andrew called.
“Mum, what have you done?!” His voice shook.
“I survived,” I said.
“Youve ruined me! Lost my job! My wife left! The kids are ashamed to go to school! Do you understand?!”
“I do. You left me in the woods. I told the world. Fairs fair.”
“IIll come get you. Give it all backthe flat, the money!”
“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*.”
Silence. Thensobs. Real ones. The first in his life.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
“I will,” I said. “When you visit, bring flowers. Not money. Not the flat. Flowers. And say, *Mum, I love you.* If you mean it, Ill believe you.”
He came a week later. Yellow tulipsmy favourite. Knelt. Kissed my hands.
I watched his tears, his fear, his guilt.
“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, sunshine.
Andrew visits weekly. Brings food, flowers, stories about the kids.
Hes changed. Or hes pretending. I dont care. I see the fear in his eyesof losing me again, of living unforgiven.
I didnt move back in. But I didnt cast him out. Because everyone deserves redemption. Even a son who left his mother in the woods.
Some evenings, I stand 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.
And my place isnt in the woods. Not in a home. But where *I* choose.
Todayby the sea. Tomorrow? Maybe the mountains. Or a new flat, with grandchildren, tulips on the sill.
Because Im not a thing. Not a burden. Not just *”old.”*
Im a person. And I have a 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 another place.
And thats my right.
