After my husband’s funeral, my son took me to the outskirts of town and said, “Mom, get off here.” We couldn’t support you anymore. But he regretted the secret I kept inside him for the rest of his life…
“It was raining lightly the day my husband was buried. The small black umbrella wasn’t enough to hide the loneliness in my heart. Holding the incense stick, I shivered, looking at the newly dug grave, the soil still wet. My companion of nearly forty years—my Rajan—was now just a handful of cold soil.”

After the funeral, I didn’t have time to wallow in grief. My eldest son, Ravi, whom my husband trusted completely, quickly took the house keys. A few years ago, when Rajan was still healthy, he said, “You’re old, I’m old. Give everything to your son. If it’s in his name, he’ll be responsible.” I didn’t object—what parent doesn’t love their child? The house and land documents, the lease/land deed (Lal Kitab), were all transferred to Ravi’s name.

On the seventh day after the funeral, Ravi invited me for a walk. I didn’t expect that day’s journey to be as sharp as a knife. The car stopped near an auto-rickshaw parking lot on the outskirts of Lucknow. Ravi said coldly:
—Get off here. Your wife and I can no longer support you. From now on, you have to take care of yourself.

My ears were ringing, my eyes were spinning. I thought I had heard wrong. But his eyes were firm, as if he wanted to push me down immediately. I sat on the side of the road, near a bottle shop, with just a few clothes in a cloth bag, motionless. The house—where I lived and cared for my husband and children—was now in his name. I had no right to return.

People say, “When you lose your husband, you still have children,” but sometimes having children is like having none at all. I was pushed into a corner by my own child. However, Ravi didn’t know: I wasn’t completely penniless. I always carried a bank passbook in my pocket—the money my husband and I had saved over a lifetime, over three crore rupees. We kept it well hidden, not letting our children or anyone else know. Mr. Rajan used to say, “People are only good when you have something in your hands.”

That day, I decided to remain silent. I wouldn’t beg, I wouldn’t reveal my secret. I had to see how Ravi and life treated me.
The first day I was left behind, I huddled under the tea stall’s balcony. The owner—Aunt Lata—took pity on me and offered me a hot cup of tea. When I told her that I had just lost my husband and my children had abandoned me, she simply sighed:
— Situations like this happen a lot these days, sister. Children sometimes value money more than love.

I temporarily rented a small boarding house and paid from the interest on my passbook. I was very careful: I never told anyone that I had a lot of money. I lived a simple life, wore old clothes, bought cheap bread and lentils, and didn’t attract attention.

There were many nights when I would curl up on the old wooden bed, remembering the old house, the creaking sound of the ceiling fan, the smell of the masala tea made by Mr. Rajan. The old memories were very painful, but then I told myself: As long as I’m alive, I have to keep moving forward.

I began to adjust to my new life. During the day, I would ask for help at the Mandi Bazaar: washing vegetables, carrying groceries, wrapping things. People paid me less, but I didn’t mind. I wanted to stand on my own two feet, not depend on pity. The market traders called me “Gentle Mrs. Shanti.” They didn’t know that whenever the market ended and I returned to my rented room, I would open my savings book, look at it, and then carefully put it away. This was the secret to life.

Once, I suddenly ran into an old acquaintance… Mrs. Meera, my best friend from my youth. Seeing me staying at the motel, I told her that my husband had passed away and life had become difficult. She felt sorry for me and invited me to work at her family’s dhaba. I agreed. The work was difficult, but in return, I got a place to sleep and food. I had all the more reason to keep my savings book a secret.

Meanwhile, I kept getting news about Ravi. He lived in a big house with his wife and children, had bought a new car, but was still gambling. An acquaintance whispered: “He must have mortgaged his land.” I heard a painful groan, but decided not to contact him. He had left his mother on the roadside, so I had nothing else to say.

One afternoon, while I was cleaning at the eatery, a stranger approached me. He was well dressed, but his face was tense. I recognized him – Ravi’s alcoholic friend. He stared at me, then asked:
— Are you Ravi’s mother?

I paused, nodded awkwardly. He leaned closer, his voice rising:
— He owes us millions of rupees. He’s in hiding now. If you still love your son, help him.

I was stunned. I just smiled lightly:
— Now I’m so poor, there’s nothing left to help.

He left angrily. But it made me think. I loved my son, but I was also deeply angry with him. He had brutally abandoned me at the auto-rickshaw station. Now he had gotten his punishment, was that even fair?

A few months later, Ravi came looking for me. He was thin, tired, and his eyes were red. As soon as he saw me, he fell to his knees, choking back tears:
— Mom, I was wrong. I’m a scoundrel. Please save me once. Otherwise, my entire family will be destroyed.

At that moment, my heart was restless. I remembered the nights when I’d silently cried for him, the scene of his abandonment. But I also remembered what Mr. Rajan had said to me before he died: “No matter what, he’s still my son.”

I remained silent for a long time. Then I slowly entered the room, took out a savings account containing over three crore rupees. I placed it in front of Ravi, my eyes calm but steady:

—This is the money your parents saved all their lives. I hid it because I was afraid you wouldn’t appreciate it. Now I’m giving it to you, but remember: if you trample on your mother’s love even once, no matter how much money you have, you’ll never be able to hold your head high again.

Ravi accepted it tremblingly. He wept like rain.

I knew that maybe he would change, maybe not. But at least, I had fulfilled my last responsibility as a mother. And the secret of that savings account was finally revealed—just when it was needed.