The Aftermath of Loss and Loneliness
Following the funeral of my husband, my son led me to a secluded path in the woods and declared, “This is your place.” My eyes did not shed tears, not because my feelings were absent—after all, we had shared forty-two years of marriage, navigating through poverty, illness, and fleeting moments of joy. The tears remained trapped inside me like stones lodged in my throat. They never surfaced, neither at the gravesite nor when our neighbor later brought coffee and cake, saying, “Now, Elfriede, stay strong.” I merely nodded, offered a polite smile, and shut the door behind me.
At the funeral, Andreas, my son, stood beside me. Tall and slender, he wore an expensive black suit that likely cost more than my pension for six months. He held my arm as expected, a gesture customary in respectable families. Yet, I felt the chill of his touch—not from the weather, but almost as if he were upholding an obligation, a burden.
During the memorial service, he spoke eloquently, pausing articulately, gesturing as he addressed the attendees. Everyone nodded in appreciation, exclaiming, “What a son! So educated! So accomplished!” Meanwhile, I sat quietly in the corner, observing him. His face appeared familiar yet alien. My eyes, my husband’s nose, but the smile—it belonged to a stranger. It was the smile of a man who had long ceased to be my son.
Three days after the funeral, he visited me while I was making coffee—my husband preferred it strong, with milk and no sugar, a habit I maintained. Andreas took a seat at the kitchen table, placing my identification and car keys on the surface.
“Mother,” he began, “I’ve thought this through. You’ll have a better life in a retirement home. In the woods. It’s quiet, idyllic, with excellent care. Fresh air and people your age. You won’t have to sit alone in the apartment. Remember how your father suffered? You could…” He faltered, but the implication was clear: “You could also die.” Or more bluntly, “You should die soon, so you won’t be a hindrance.”
I kept my silence, sipping my coffee. It was hot enough to scorch my lips. Yet I persisted, needing to remain composed, to stifle any urge to scream or hurl the cup at him.
“The apartment and the business are now mine. Your father transferred everything to me a year ago, ensuring there would be no disputes,” he mentioned casually.
I was aware that my husband had bequeathed everything to our son without my consent. I stayed silent, naively believing that his presence in my life was all that mattered.
“You understand, right?” he continued. “You have no place here alone. You can’t manage. You are weary. You are old.” He spoke his last word gently, almost with pity, as if it were a diagnosis, branding me a broken object to be discarded.
“When?” I asked quietly.
Perhaps he anticipated tears, outbursts, or threats, but I simply asked, “When?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up. Everything is arranged. You won’t need to take much, just the essentials. And don’t worry. I will come to visit you. Of course,” he assured.
But I knew he was lying. He wouldn’t come—not even once.
The following morning, he arrived in his Mercedes. I emerged with a suitcase containing a photo of my husband, my ID, some cash I had secretly saved, and a notebook filled with his favorite recipes. Andreas tossed the suitcase into the trunk as if it were a sack of potatoes. He then opened the door for me. I took my seat in the back without him uttering a single word of farewell.
We drove in silence, passing the city, the suburbs, and finally the woods. The road turned narrow and bumpy, unpaved. I gazed out the window—trees, silence, birds, beauty, and fear.
“Andreas,” I broke the silence, “where exactly is this retirement home?”
He took his time responding, eventually throwing over his shoulder, “You’ll see shortly.” After twenty minutes, he turned onto a narrow forest path, the vehicle bouncing over roots. I clutched the door. My heart raced—not from fear but from an ominous realization.
He stopped and opened my door. I stepped out, met with an empty expanse—no people, no buildings, just dense, dark silence.
“Here,” he said, “is your place.”
I looked around, studying his expression. It was composed, almost satisfied.
“What do you mean by ‘my place’?” I questioned.
“Exactly what I said,” he replied. “Understand that it’s better for you here. Peaceful and quiet. No one will bother you.” He positioned a bag beside me, containing food for several days. “After that, well, you’re smart. You’ll manage on your own.”
I froze, my mind a blank canvas of white noise, as if someone had muted the world.
“You’re leaving me here? In the woods?”
He shrugged, “I’m not abandoning you. I’m giving you freedom. You will be gone soon anyway. Why do you need the apartment? The city? You are a hindrance to me. Honestly, you are a memory—reminding me of what I should feel. But I don’t want to. I have my life, my family. A wife and kids who don’t want to live with an old woman—especially not one who is weary.”
He delivered this with such ease, as though reciting a shopping list.
“Andreas,” I whispered, “I am your mother.”
“You were,” he corrected. “Now you are a burden. I’m sorry. But this is better for everyone.”
He climbed in, fired up the engine. I clutched the door handle, desperately hanging on.
“Andreas! Wait! I’ll give everything up! The apartment, the money, everything! Don’t leave me here!”
He hit the gas, and the car jerked forward, causing me to fall, striking my knee against a stone. I cried out and crawled after the vehicle, but he didn’t even glance back.
Left sitting on the ground, I grasped my knee as blood seeped through my stockings. The pain resonated, but not physically—it ran deeper, echoing where my heart once beat.
I opened the bag—finding water, bread, a chocolate bar. Andreas must have thought I shouldn’t die too quickly so that his conscience could stay clear, allowing him to say, “I gave her a chance.”
I consumed the chocolate, drank the water, and stood up. I surveyed my surroundings.
Only woods. No road. No path. No traces of humanity—just wildlife trails and silence, thick enough to buzz in my ears.
I started walking. Just moving, wherever my eyes led me. Perhaps to a road, a river, or even to death. It didn’t matter to me.
After an hour, I stumbled upon a brook—narrow and clear. I cupped my hands to drink, washed my face, and examined my reflection. Gray hair, wrinkles, vacant eyes, as if no one resided within.
“You are old,” he had said.
Indeed, I am old. But not dead.
I spent the night beneath a fir tree, huddled, pulling my coat around me, shivering—not from the cold but from rage and pain.
I reminisced about my husband—his laughter, how he made tea when I was ill, how he held my hand when fear enveloped me, how he would say, “You are my anchor.” Now I felt like no one—forgotten, like refuse.
Yet I didn’t want to die. Not here. Not like this.
The next morning, I continued onward. All day, without purpose. Just moving to avoid sitting still and succumbing to madness.
On the third day, I found a trail. It wasn’t a road, just a dirt path, but it led somewhere. People passed by, and I followed it.
After an hour, a truck stopped. The driver, a kindly man in his fifties.
“Grandma, where to?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I blurted the first thing that came to mind:
“To the city. To my son.”
He nodded and opened the door. “Get in, I’ll take you there.”
I remained silent throughout the ride. He didn’t ask questions—just turned on the radio, playing an old song. I closed my eyes and wept quietly. The tears that had been absent for three days now flowed like a river.
He stopped at the bus station.
“Here,” he said, handing me a bottle of water and a sandwich. “And don’t worry. Everything will be alright.”
I nodded, expressed my gratitude, and stepped out.
In the city, I went directly to the police station and recounted my story—bare, without embellishments or tears, only the facts.
The officer listened attentively, taking notes, shaking his head.
“You realize that we can’t act without evidence? He didn’t hit you or threaten you. He only abandoned you in the woods. You survived, which is good. But legally, it’s not a crime,” he replied.
I stared at him, at his uniform, and his apathetic gaze.
“So he can do this again? To someone else? And nothing occurs?”
“Without evidence, yes,” he confirmed. “Consult a lawyer or social services. They might help you find a place to stay.”
I left and stood on the street as a light rain began to fall. People hurried past without acknowledging the old woman with her bag.
I went to the library, where there was free internet. I researched, read, and learned how to write letters to the prosecutor’s office, human rights organizations, and the media. I reached out everywhere.
A week later, a young journalist called, fire in her eyes.
“Elfriede, tell me everything. We’ll publish it. The public needs to know.”
I recounted my story plainly, sticking to the facts.
The article was published three days later, entitled: “Son Abandons Mother in the Woods: ‘This is Your Place.’” My photo appeared alongside it—wearing a gray dress with empty eyes.
Within an hour, hundreds of comments poured in. Thousands shared the post. People were outraged, crying out for justice.
The following day, I received a call from Andreas.
“Mother,” his voice trembled, “what have you done?!”
“I’m alive,” I replied.
“You’re ruining me! I’ve been fired! My wife left! The kids are ashamed! Do you understand?!”
“Yes,” I responded. “You left me in the woods. I told the world. Justice is served.”
“I will come! I’ll get you! I’ll return everything—the apartment, the money, everything!”
“Too late,” I said. “I don’t want your apartment. I want you to understand that a mother is not garbage. That old age is not a verdict. That a person is not a thing.”
He fell silent, then began to sob—true sobs, something I hadn’t seen before.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”
“I forgive,” I stated. “If you come, bring me flowers—not money, not an apartment. Just flowers. And say: Mother, I love you. Only then will I believe you—if you mean it sincerely.”
He arrived a week later, bringing yellow tulips—my favorite flowers. He knelt before me, weeping, kissing my hands.
I looked at him, his tears, his fear, and remorse.
“Get up,” I said. “I’m not a deity; I’m your mother. And I forgive you.”
Now, I don’t reside in a retirement home or his apartment. I rent a small place of my own, finding my freedom once more.