Mother Gains Parole After Serving Her Son’s Prison Term; He Sells Their Home and Won’t Even Let Her Inside.

I stopped in front of the little iron gate that marked the back of the cottage, leaning my back against the wattle fence. Id leapt off the bus like a lunatic and was spent. The thin greyblue smoke curling from the chimney made my heart pound so hard it felt as if it might shatter my ribs. Even though the air was crisp, a thin sheen of sweat dotted my forehead. I brushed it away with a quick flick of my hand and shoved the gate open with determination.

A keen eye told me the outbuilding had been patched up. My son hadnt written in ages, but he hadnt lied the family home was still being looked after, just as hed promised. I bounded up the porch steps, ready to hug my dear Ian.

The door swung open onto a stranger, grim, with a kitchen cloth draped over his shoulder.
Looking for someone? he asked in a hoarse voice, staring me down.

I stared, stunned.
And Ian, where is he?

The man scratched his chin nervously, fixing his gaze on me without a hint of courtesy. He could see my state: an old padded coat, threadbare boots, a stained satchel the garb of someone whod known hard times. He wasnt out for a stroll; summer had taken you away and now it was late autumn; his clothes looked like theyd come straight from a workhouse.

Ians my son. Where is he? Is he all right?

The stranger shrugged indifferently.
Probably. You ought to know that yourself. He moved to shut the door, then halted. Ian Thompson?

I nodded hurriedly. He gave a sympathetic look.
I bought this house four years ago. Come in if you like

No, no! I waved my hands, nearly losing my footing on the steps. Can you tell me where to find him?

He shook his head. I turned back to the gate. I could have gone to my friend Martha, but she had a sharp tongue; shed have filled me with curses. My mothers heart told me something terrible had happened to my boy.

I walked slowly toward the bus shelter, lost in dark thoughts. What had gone wrong? Ian had been so sure Four years earlier hed trusted a friend and got caught up in a scam. If I hadnt taken the blame, hed have served a far longer sentence. They sentenced me, an old woman, to just five years. Three days before my release they let me out for good behaviour and even paid my fare.

Sitting on a concrete bench, I whispered:
Where are you, my little one?

Tears welled up. My heart had leapt when, three years earlier, the letters from my son stopped. Now my worst fears were confirmed: hed even sold the house. I dabbed my cheeks with a handkerchief.

Suddenly a black car pulled up. The grim man, now the new owner of the cottage, handed me a slip of paper:
I found this address in the paperwork. If you wish, Ill take you into town.

I took the paper like a lifeline.
Thank you, lad, dont worry; Ill manage. Reassured, I headed for the old bus that was pulling in.

Half an hour of jolts, anxieties and wandering through the town later, I finally stood before a rundown threestorey block. I rang the intercom repeatedly, holding my breath. Theyd open the door to deliver perhaps dreadful news. My tears kept flowing.

When the door flung wide, my joy knew no bounds: there, rumpled, a touch tipsy but alive, was my Ian! I burst into sobs, eager to hug him, but he didnt look happy at all. He stepped back, leaving the door ajar:
How did you find me?

Taken aback by his cold welcome, I couldnt answer. Ian turned and pushed me toward the stairs:
Im sorry, Mum, but you cant stay. Im living with a woman who loathes exprisoners. Sort yourself out; Ive not a penny.

I tried to speak of the money from the house sale, but the door shut a shot to the heart. I didnt shed another tear. Head down, I descended the stairs. Martha had been right: Id raised a rogue. I had to own up and endure the reproach, roofless.

Back in my village, fate turned cruel again: Martha had died six months before; her house now sheltered distant relatives. Under a fine drizzle, I lingered at the bus shelter, pondering what lay ahead.

The headlights of a car flashed. The man from earlier, the new landlord, called out:
Get in, youre soaked!

I refused, sobbing: I had nowhere to go, and this stranger was oddly kind. He forced me into the car almost by hand.

We talked. I recounted my bitter tale, omitting the visit to my son out of shame. The driver, Andrew, offered me a place to stay, at least for a while. So I moved back into my old home, now owned by Andrew, and stayed.

Andrew worked from dawn till dusk: he ran a booming sawmill; I looked after the housecooking, laundry, choresnothing too fancy for modern appliances. Andrew, still young and divorced, wasnt thinking of a new family.

His presence was exactly what I needed: under his protective wing, the orphaned widower finally felt the warmth of a hearth. Whenever I mentioned leaving, hed reply:
Where would you go? This is your home now!

Gradually my own heart thawed. A blood son cant be replaced, true, but Andrew proved a rare kindness, almost like a true son. As winter approached, I decided to bring him lunch from the milla short walk, and sometimes he was too busy to eat back.

That day he brought a steaming thermos of broth and hefty meatballs. He sent an office stranger away, spread a clean tablecloth. Andrew laughed:
Margaret, youre a general: no arguments! And if anyone gets offended?

I furrowed my brow:
You want to hire him as foreman? He looks the part: a rogue. Trust my instincts; prison taught me to read men.

He shook his head:
Come on, mum! Hes got a solid CV. We cant rely on a gut feeling.

I was right. A month later the mill suffered huge losses; the man was stealing timber in secret and vanished with an entire lorry. Andrew, grim, admitted the mistake.

When hiring a new crew, he decided: since Grandma knows her stuff, shed help. From then on I sat in the interviews: Andrew asked, I observed, I wrote a verdict which he then read out. Full sheets: drunk brawler, proven thief, lazy alcoholic concise, exact.

He also spotted good workers, though they were rough around the edges. Yet on one applicant he hesitated: he stared at the form, his hands trembling.

Andrew looked at the visitor: it was the man whod sold the house! Ian stood, stunned, eyeing the mother beside the owner, brow furrowed, toying with his cap. His wife had sent him to work; the mill paid well. He hadnt expected to find his mother there; he thought she was lost.

In the hush, Andrew took the verdict sheet. I wrote two words, then rushed out. Ian gave a sardonic grin: of course theyd hire him, his mother would confess for him.

Andrew read aloud:
Cursed type. He swatted Ian like a fly. Out! I trust mums judgment.