When the Roar of the Mercedes Engine Faded into the Trees, the Silence Weighed on Me Like a Heavy Blanket

**Diary Entry 12th October**

When the rumble of the BMWs engine faded into the trees, the silence pressed down on me like a heavy quilt. I just stood there, clutching my handbag, my knees trembling, every breath sharp. The air smelled of damp earth, moss, and rotting leaves. Even the birds had gone quiet. As if the forest itself knew something was terribly wrong.

I didnt shout for help again. The tearsthe ones that hadnt come at my husbands funeralnow spilled freely. Not from grief. From humiliation. From the sickening realisation that my own bloodmy sonhad just discarded me like an old piece of furniture.

I sat on a fallen log, trying to gather my thoughts. The sun dipped lower, the light turning golden, shadows stretching long. The only sound was my own heartbeat. I knew: if I stayed, Id die. But I refused to give him that satisfaction.

I pulled out the photo of my late husband from my bag. His face, that familiar, warm smile, met my eyes.

See this, William? I whispered. This is what you raised. This is the good lad you were so proud of.

A tear rolled onto the photo. And in that moment, something inside me clicked. It wasnt fear that took overit was will. That stubborn, countrywomans will that had kept me going all my life.

I stood up. If he thought Id just fade away quietly, hed misjudged me. Id survived the Blitz, rationing, inflation, and hospitals. Id survive this too.

I walked. I dont know how long. The woods were thick, twigs snapping underfoot. My shoes were caked in mud, my heart thudding in my throat. Then, in the distancea rustle, then the outline of a small wooden hut. An abandoned hunting lodge. The roof sagged, the windows boarded, but inside was dry. I found an old blanket, lay down on a bench, and under the hooting of an owl, I slept.

At dawn, I woke. Every muscle ached, but my mind was clear. I knew what I had to do: go back to London. Not for revenge. For justice. Because the boy who could leave his own mother in the woods was no longer a man. And men like that have to learn life doesnt leave debts unpaid.

Hours of wandering later, I heard the hum of traffic. Stumbling onto the road, a lorry slowed. The driver, a moustached man in his sixties, gaped at me.

Christ alive, love, what are you doin out here?

Going home, I said quietly. Only my son forgot to take me.

He didnt ask more. He drove me to the city. I went straight to the police. The young sergeant frowned.

Maam, youre serious? Your son abandoned you in the woods? Must be some mistake.

I took out my old brick of a phone and showed him the one photo Id managedthe black BMW vanishing between the trees.

I dont think it was a mistake, young man.

The story spread fast. My face was in the papers: Wealthy Businessman Leaves Elderly Mother in Woods. Neighbours, friends, the women at churcheveryone talked. Andrews photo from the funeral, in his black suit, now meant something else: coldness. Shame.

When he was finally called in, he was pale, sweating. We met in the corridor.

Mum whyd you do this to me? Its over now. My company, my reputationeverything!

I looked at him. No guilt in his eyesjust fear.

It was over for me too, son, I said softly. Only I chose to live.

The investigation dragged on. He hired lawyers, claimed it was a misunderstanding, that hed panicked. He even apologised, but I knewhe wasnt sorry for me. He was scrubbing his own shame clean.

The court found him guilty. Endangering life, abandonment of a vulnerable person. Eighteen months suspended, a fine, community service. Legally, a light sentence. But the real punishment came later.

On the courthouse steps, he turned to me, hollow-eyed.

You ruined my life, he muttered.

No, Andrew, I said. You ruined yours. I just walked out of those woods.

I never saw him again. He sold his flat, moved abroad. They say hes in Germany now.

I stayed. In the same house he once tried to take from me. I redecorated.

Fresh paint, geraniums in the window. Every morning, I brew a strong cup of teamilk, no sugar. And I always set out two cups. One for William.

On the windowsill sits a small white pebble. The very one I scraped my knee on when I fell in the woods. A keepsake. Not of the painof the strength.

Because growing old doesnt start when youre thrown away. It starts when you believe theres no life left in you.

I never believed it.

And thats why Im still here.