After the funeral of my husband, my son took me to a secluded forest road and stated, “This is your place.” I did not shed tears that day. It wasn’t due to a lack of love; we had been married for forty-two years and faced countless challenges together—poverty, illness, and rare moments of joy. The tears were trapped inside, caught like a stone lodged in my throat. They did not flow—neither at the gravesite nor later, when a neighbor dropped by with coffee and cake, reassuring me with the words, “Be strong, Elfriede.” I nodded, smiled politely, and shut the door.
Andreas, my son, stood beside me at the service. Tall and slender, he wore an expensive black suit, likely costing more than my pension for six months. He grasped my arm as was customary in decent families. Yet, his hand felt cold— not from the weather in a figurative sense—but as if he didn’t hold his mother but rather adhered to a duty, a burden.
“What a son! So educated! So successful!”
During the ceremony, he delivered speeches—intelligent and measured, accompanied by gestures. Everyone praised him while I sat in a corner, observing him. His face bore a familiarity yet felt alien. His eyes were mine, his nose inherited from his father, but his smile belonged to a stranger—a man who had long stopped being my son.
Three days post-funeral, he visited me. I was brewing coffee, a beverage my husband always enjoyed black, with milk but no sugar. This habit persisted. Andreas settled at the kitchen table, laying down car keys and my identification in front of me.
“Mother,” he began, “I’ve given this a lot of thought. You’d be better off in a retirement home. In the woods. Peaceful, idyllic, with good care. Fresh air and people your age. You needn’t be alone in the apartment. You know how your father suffered—you could…”
He trailed off, but I understood. He implied: “You could also die,” or rather, “You should die. Soon. So you’re not in my way.” I remained silent, sipping the coffee, scalding my lips. Nonetheless, I drank to suppress my trembling, to avoid screaming, to refrain from throwing the cup at his head.
“The apartment,” he continued, “and the business now belong to me. Father signed everything over to me a year ago. You know, he always thought of me to prevent disputes.” I was aware that my husband had transferred everything to our son before passing, without consulting me. I said nothing, foolishly believing: “As long as he’s there for me. As long as he cares.”
“You understand,” he added, “that you belong here no longer. You won’t manage. You are tired. You are old.” He said the last word gently, almost compassionately—as if it were a diagnosis, as though I were an old appliance destined for disposal.
“When?” I inquired. He likely expected tears, yelling, threats; instead, I merely asked, “When?”
“Tomorrow,” he replied. “I’ll pick you up. Everything is arranged. You need hardly take anything—most things are provided. Just the essentials. And don’t worry. I will visit you, of course.” He lied; I knew he would not come. Not even once.
The next morning, he arrived in his Mercedes. I stepped outside with a suitcase containing a photo of my husband, my identification, some money I had saved secretly, and a notebook with recipes of his favorite meals. Andreas tossed the suitcase into the trunk as if it were a sack of potatoes, then opened the door for me. I settled into the back seat without him uttering a word, simply starting the engine and driving off.
We drove in silence. The city faded away, followed by suburban areas, then the forest. The road narrowed, grew bumpy and unpaved. I gazed out the window—trees, stillness, birds, beauty, and fear.
“Andreas,” I finally asked, “where exactly is this retirement home?” He didn’t respond right away. Eventually, he threw over his shoulder, “You’ll see soon enough.”
After twenty minutes, he turned onto a narrow forest path. The vehicle rattled over tree roots. I held onto the door, heart pounding—not from the jolt but from foreboding.
He came to a stop, letting me out. There was no one around, no buildings—just the thick, dark, silent woods. “Here,” he said. “Your place.” I looked around, examining his expression. It was calm, almost satisfied.
“What do you mean, my place?” I questioned. “Exactly that,” he replied. “You understand. It’s better for you. Quiet. Peaceful. No one will bother you.”
He placed a bag next to me—food for a few days. Afterward, well, you’re wise, you’ll figure it out. I froze, a white noise engulfing my thoughts as if someone had muted the world.
“You’re leaving me here? In the woods?”
He shrugged. “I’m not abandoning you. I’m granting you freedom. You’ll leave soon anyway. Why do you need the apartment? The city? You hinder me. Honestly. You’re a reminder that I should feel something, 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 lady, especially not one who is tired.”
He delivered his words so casually, as if 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 back in, starting the engine. I lunged for the door, gripping the handle tightly. “Andreas! Wait! I’ll give everything up! The apartment, the money, all of it! Don’t leave me here!” He pressed the accelerator, the car jerked forward. I tumbled, striking my knee against a rock. I screamed, crawling after the vehicle, but he didn’t look back.
I sat on the ground, cradling my knee as blood soaked through my stocking. Pain was present, but not the physical kind—it was deeper, where my heart once beat.
I opened the bag—water, bread, a chocolate bar. Perhaps Andreas thought I should not die immediately, wanting to keep his conscience clear, able to claim, “I gave her a chance.” I consumed the chocolate, drank the water, rose then looked around.
Only the woods. No road. No path. No signs of humanity, only animal tracks and silence so thick it buzzed in my ears. I walked, simply moving forward, letting my eyes guide me—perhaps toward a street, perhaps to a river, maybe to death. I didn’t care.
After an hour, I stumbled upon a narrow, clear stream. I drank with my hands, splashed my face and gazed at my reflection—gray hair, wrinkles, empty eyes, as if no one was home.
“You’re old,” he said.
Indeed, I am old. But not dead.
That night, I sheltered under a fir tree, curled up tightly, pulling my coat over me, shivering—not from cold, but from anger, from pain.
Thoughts of my husband filled my mind—his laughter, how he brewed tea when I was ill, how he held my hand when fear loomed, how he declared, “You are my support.” And now, I was nothing—forgotten, refuse.
But I did not wish to die—not here, not like this. The next morning, I continued onward, all day long, directionless, simply moving to avoid sitting still and losing my sanity.
On the third day, I discovered a path—not a road, an unpaved track, but a way. People traversed it, so I followed. After an hour, a truck pulled over. The driver, a man in his fifties with a kind face, asked, “Ma’am, where to?”
I hesitated, unsure what to say, finally uttering 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.” I remained silent throughout the ride. He didn’t inquire anything, merely turned on the radio to an old tune. I closed my eyes and wept softly—the tears that had been held back for three days now flowed freely.
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 in gratitude and exited.
In the city, I went to the police. I recounted everything plainly, without embellishments or tears—just the facts. The officer listened, wrote notes, and shook his head.
“You do understand that we cannot act without evidence, right? He didn’t hit you or threaten you. He merely abandoned you in the woods. Surviving is good, but it’s not a crime, legally speaking.” I looked at him—his uniform, indifferent eyes.
“So he can do this again? To someone else? And nothing happens?”
“Without evidence, yes,” he replied. “Consult a lawyer or social services. They might assist you with housing.”
I left, standing on the street as a light rain began to fall. People rushed past me, oblivious to the old woman with the sack.
I entered the library, where there was free internet. I searched, read, and learned to write letters—to the prosecutor’s office, to human rights organizations, to the media—everywhere.
A week later, a journalist called—a young woman, fire in her eyes. “Elfriede, tell me everything. We will publish it. The people need to know.” I shared my story—without gloss, without tears, just the facts.
The article appeared three days later, titled: “Son Leaves Mother in the Woods: Here is Your Place.” It featured my picture from the funeral—my gray dress, vacant eyes.
Within an hour, hundreds of comments and thousands of shares poured in. People were outraged, weeping, demanding justice.
The following day, I received a call from Andreas.
“Mother,” his voice trembled, “what have you done?!”
“I’m alive,” I responded.
“You’re ruining me! I got fired! My wife is gone! The kids are ashamed! Do you understand?!”
“Yes,” I said. “You left me in the woods. I told the world. Justice was served.”
“I will come. Get you back. Return everything—the apartment, the money—everything!”
“Too late,” I replied. “I don’t want your apartment. I want you to understand. A mother isn’t trash. Age isn’t a verdict. A person isn’t an object.”
He fell silent, then I heard sobbing—true emotion—for the first time in his life.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”
“I forgive,” I said. “When you come, bring me flowers, not money, not the apartment—flowers. And say, “Mother, I love you,” and I will believe you if you mean it sincerely.”
He arrived a week later, bringing yellow tulips—my favorite flowers. He knelt, weeping, and kissed my hands.
I gazed at him—his tears, his fear, and remorse.
“Stand up,” I said. “I’m not a god. I’m your mother. And I forgive.”
Now, I do not live in a retirement home or in his apartment. I rent a small space.