PLEASE LET ME GO, I BEG YOU

Let me go, please, the woman whispered, her voice trembling like a cracked mirror. Im not going anywhere This is my home, and I wont abandon it. Her words rang with the sound of unshed tears.

Mum, said the man, his tone heavy, you know I cant keep looking after you forever You have to understand.

Alex Turner stared at his mother, his heart a hollow drum. She sat on the threadbare sofa of the old cottage in the tiny Yorkshire hamlet of Thornfield, the window framing a pale autumn wind that stripped the ancient oaks of their golden leaves. Her right handstill strongclutched the limp left one, as if trying to revive it.

He knew the truth: she had suffered a stroke. Margaret Turner had always been frail. Alex remembered the summer he had taken months off work to nurse her after a broken leg; she had stumbled at the slightest impulse, unable to take a single step without his support.

Alex had only recently begun earning a decent wage, and he had planned to refurbish the cottage for the summer, giving his mother a comfortable nest. The stroke shattered those plans, forcing him to think of taking her to the city instead.

Emma will pack your things, Alex said to his wife, nodding toward her. Tell her if you need anything.

Margaret fell silent, her gaze fixed on the window where the wind rattled the yellowed leaves. The house seemed to breathe with her, the walls whispering old lullabies.

Emma rummaged through the wardrobe, repeatedly asking Margaret what to keep and what to leave. The old woman only stared outward, her thoughts drifting far beyond the knit blankets and cracked spectacles that littered the room.

Margaret had been born and raised in Thornfield, a village that had dwindled to a handful of cottages. She had spent her life as a seamstress, first in the villages tiny workshop before it closed, leaving only a few residents. Then she stitched in her own home, but as orders faded, she turned to the garden and the cottage, giving each stone and sprout a piece of her soul. She could never imagine abandoning that world for a flat in London.

Later, in the kitchen, Emma placed a plate of food on the table and sighed, She wont eat anything again. I cant keep doing this. Im exhausted.

Alex watched her, then the untouched plate, and nodded. He took a deep breath and slipped into his mothers room.

Margaret sat on the sofa, eyes dim and distant, a glassy stare into the void. Her working hand lay over the other, a desperate attempt to bring life back to the limp one.

The room was cluttered with exercise bands, a heap of pills on the nightstand, and a few small machines. If Alex had not pressed forward, none of it would have been touched.

Mum? he whispered.

She gave no answer.

Mum? he tried again.

A thin, broken voice finally emerged, Son? The words were slurred, the stroke still stealing their clarity. She managed to say, I dont want you, son, before turning slowly to Alex. Really. Dont make me.

Mom what do you want? Just tell me, Alex pleaded, sitting beside her. She took his hand, her grip surprisingly gentle.

I want to go home, she whispered. Im afraid Ill never see it again.

Alexs shoulders sagged. You know Im working every day, and Emma is running from one appointment to another. Its winter outside, travelling is a nightmare. Lets wait until spring, at least. Margaret nodded, a faint smile trembling on her lips.

Dont be late, my dear, she murmured, as if time itself were a fragile thread.

Later, in a sterile clinic, a doctor removed her glasses and sighed, Im sorry, the IVF cycle didnt work again. Emmas hand flew to her face, her voice cracking, How? Everyone else succeeds. They said it was normal not to get pregnant the first time. Forty percent do after the first cycle. This is the third, and nothing?

Alex sat rigid, his fingers clenched around Emmas hand. In the next wing, Margaret was receiving a massage, and the nurse announced it was time to fetch her.

The doctor spoke softly, I understand your longing. Youre under constant stress, and that drains your body. Emma blurted, Of course Im stressed! I have to work from home to pay for the exorbitant IVF, attend endless appointments, swallow pills that poison me, care for my mother who barely eats or drinks, and all the while I just want a child so my husband will see me, not just his mum!

Emma fell silent, realizing shed said too much. She snatched her bag and fled the room, the door slamming behind her.

Sorry, Alex whispered.

Its fine, the doctor waved dismissively. Ive seen worse tantrums. Everythings alright.

Emma sank onto the waitingroom sofa, tears streaming, shoulders shaking with each sob. She lifted her redwet eyes to Alex, choking, Im sorry I didnt mean to speak about your mum. Im just tiredtired of watching someone slip away, tired of empty test strips, tired of paying fortunes for another try. I cant do this any longer.

If I could, I would move mountains for both of you, Alex said, his voice breaking.

I know, Emma replied through tears, managing a weak smile. And I understand.

They clasped hands in silence for a few minutes, then Emma stood, smoothed her shirt collar, and said, Lets go. Margaret is probably done with the massage. She hates hospitals; they keep her melancholy long after.

In a quiet corridor, a small, bespectacled doctor whispered to Alex, Your mothers progress is minimal. They stepped aside to keep Margaret from hearing. Emma stayed with the doctor.

The probability of recovery after a stroke is slim, but she had no harmful habits, no chronic disease. She should have had a chance, the doctor murmured. But I think shes given up. Theres no spark in her eyes; she seems to have stopped wanting to live.

Alex nodded, his own eyes reflecting the same bleakness. Margaret had lost fifteen kilograms, her appearance altered beyond recognition. She sat, staring out the same window, never reading, never watching television, never speaking to anyone.

The brain injury can affect behavior, but I expected less in her case, the old doctor added. When you first came, I saw no such signs.

I think its something else, Alex said quietly.

Later, Emma pressed the phone to her ear, Alex, can you cancel the work trip? Mums gotten worse. Im scared you wont make it in time. She spoke with a heavy heart, knowing how much Alex valued his mothers wellbeing.

The days blurred. Emma remembered how Margaret used to listen to old vinyl records, the ones brought from the village by her father, a music teacher. Now Margaret merely stared at a single point, sipping milk, muttering that it never tasted like the milk back home.

Alex arrived that evening, staying by Margarets bedside through the night. You know what I want, he whispered. You promised.

The next morning they drove to Thornfield. Margaret refused to go to the hospital, insisting she wanted to go home. March was turning to spring, the roads still wet but passable. Alex opened the car door, helped her into a wheelchair.

Snow melted from the hedges, revealing the earths soft brown crust. The trees bent reluctantly against a gentle breeze, and the sun began to warm the air. Margaret sat in the garden for hours, a tentative smile spreading across her face as she breathed the fresh air, looking up at the sky and weeping tears of joy.

She finally felt herself at home, surrounded by the crooked cottage, the bright sun, the sounds of birds, the coolness of thawing snow. That evening she ate, lingered outside a while longer, and slept peacefully. The next morning she was gone, slipping away with that same serene smile, leaving behind a quiet peace.

Alex and Emma took a few days off to lay Margaret to rest, to clear out the cottage, and to decide its fate. Alex, for the first time in years, lingered longer than two days in the countryside, inhaling the intoxicating rural air.

Before they left for the city, Emma felt suddenly ill. She rushed to the bathroom and vomited. Returning to Alex, she stared at a pregnancy test in her trembling handstwo pink lines, unmistakable. Its its my mum, she whispered, tears spilling, Margaret she helped us

Alex lifted his gaze to the clear, cloudless sky, nodded, and embraced Emma tightly. The gift from his mother was the last, most precious one she could give.

The dream lingered, strange and soft, as the English countryside folded into memory.