Let Me Go, Please “I’m not going anywhere…” the woman whispered hoarsely, her voice trembling with unshed tears. “This is my home and I’m not leaving it.” “Mum,” said the man gently. “You know I can’t take care of you anymore. Please, you have to understand.” Alex was sad. He could see how worried and anxious his mother was as she sat on the battered old sofa in the cottage where she’d spent her whole life. “I’ll be fine, you don’t need to look after me,” she said stubbornly. “Just leave me here.” But Alex knew she couldn’t manage. It was a stroke. His mother, Mrs. Sylvia Peterson, had always been unwell. He remembered all too well the months he’d taken off work to care for her when she broke her leg—not long ago. She’d put on a brave face, but at first, she couldn’t even take a single step on her own. Not so long ago, Alex had finally started earning a decent living, and planned to spend the summer refurbishing the family home to make life easier for his mum. But the stroke changed everything. There was no point in renovating; he’d have to move her to his flat in the city. “Marina will help you pack,” he nodded to his wife. “Just let her know if you need anything.” Sylvia said nothing, her gaze fixed on the window, where the autumn breeze tugged yellowed leaves from the ancient trees she’d known all her life. Her good right hand clenched her useless left tightly in her lap. Marina busied herself in the bedroom, constantly asking what to bring and what not to, but Sylvia simply stared through the glass, her thoughts far from her daughter-in-law and the old house dresses. Mrs. Sylvia Peterson had been born and lived all of her sixty-eight years in a tiny English village that had emptied as time went on. She’d worked as a seamstress first at the local dressmaker’s, then from home when there weren’t enough customers. Gradually, her work dried up, and she turned her attention wholly to the garden and cottage, pouring her life into them. The idea of leaving for a strange, too-big city flat was unthinkable. … “Alex, she hasn’t eaten again,” Marina sighed as she set an untouched plate on the kitchen table. “I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.” Alex looked first at his wife and then at the full plate. He shook his head, taking a heavy breath before going into his mother’s room. Sylvia was seated on the sofa, unmoving, staring at the garden. Her faded grey eyes were fixed somewhere far away, working hand holding her useless one as though trying to bring it back to life. The room was filled with rehab equipment and medicines. Without Alex’s insistence, she would never use any of it. “Mum?” No response. “Mum?” “My darling?” came her faint, slurred reply. Even now, speaking was hard; the words blurred. It had improved, but still, it was difficult to make her out. “Why aren’t you eating? Marina cooked again just for you. You’ve hardly touched anything in days.” “I don’t want to, love,” Sylvia replied softly, turning to Alex. “Really. Please, don’t force me.” “Mum… What do you want then? Just say…” Sitting next to her, Alex took her hand. She squeezed his back. “You know what I want, Alex. I want to go home. I’m afraid I never will.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You know I’m working every day now, and Marina’s always busy with the doctors. It’s winter, and the trip would be hard… Can we at least wait until spring?” His mother nodded. Alex smiled, stood, and left. “Just hope it’s not too late, my son… Just hope it’s not too late.” … “I’m sorry, the IVF didn’t work again,” the doctor said apologetically, removing her glasses and looking at the young woman. Marina gasped, face in hands. “But how? Why does it work for everyone else? You said it was normal for the first attempt to fail. Only forty percent succeed at first. But this is the third round—why is it never me?” Alex sat silently, holding his wife’s trembling hand. He was anxious, too. His mother, Mrs. Peterson, was having her massage session across the hallway; he had to collect her shortly. “I understand all of this means so much to you,” the doctor said quietly. “But I think the stress is holding you back. Your body can’t…” “Of course I’m stressed! I have to work at home just to pay for this ridiculously expensive IVF! I have to take horrible pills, look after your mother-in-law, run to appointments, and listen to her complain about food and medicine! Maybe if we had a child, my husband would finally focus on someone besides his mother!” Marina broke off abruptly, realizing what she’d said. She grabbed her bag and strode out, slamming the door. “I’m sorry,” Alex whispered. “It’s alright,” the doctor sighed. “I’ve seen worse. Take care.” Alex followed his wife out. Marina was crumpled on a waiting room bench, quietly sobbing into her hands. When she looked up, her eyes were red and swollen. “I’m sorry… I just… I didn’t mean what I said about your mum. I’m exhausted. Tired of watching someone slowly die in front of us. Tired of seeing one line on a test, and pouring our savings into failed attempts. I just… can’t do it anymore…” “If there was anything I could do, I’d help you both. But I just can’t…” “I know,” Marina managed through tears, giving a weary smile. “I understand.” They sat hand in hand in silence for a time before Marina jumped up, fixed her collar, and gave a determined smile. “Come on. Mrs Peterson’s probably done. She hates hospitals. They make her sad.” … “Your mum’s made almost no progress,” said the elderly doctor quietly when Alex drew him aside. Marina remained with Sylvia. “When you first came, I was sure she would recover. Yes, strokes are difficult, but she had none of the risk factors. She had a real chance.” “But nothing’s happening. I can see it myself.” “I think… She doesn’t want to recover. She’s given up. There’s no spark in her eyes. It’s as if she’s lost the will to live.” Alex nodded silently. He could see it too. Sylvia had lost fifteen kilos; she barely resembled herself. She sat unmoving, all day, staring out. No books, no TV, no conversations—just the window. “In some, strokes affect behavior,” the old doctor added softly, “but I didn’t expect it to hit so hard in your mother’s case. Early on, she showed nothing like this.” “I think it’s something else,” Alex replied, just as quietly. … “Alex,” Marina’s voice was low on the phone, “can you cancel your trip? Sylvia’s really bad. I’m afraid… you won’t make it in time…” It hurt to say. She knew what his mother meant to him, and it weighed on her too, witnessing Sylvia slip away lying on the sofa. Before, her mother-in-law would listen to her late husband’s old vinyl records or gaze at the garden through the window, but now, she lay silent, not moving, not eating—only drinking the milk she used to complain was nothing like the village. Alex arrived that night, rushing to his mother’s side and sitting with her all night. “You know what I want. You promised me.” Alex nodded. Yes, he’d promised. The next day they made the journey to the old village. Sylvia refused the doctor. “I don’t want to go to hospital. I want to go home.” It was March. Roads, for once, hadn’t flooded. They drove almost to the door. Alex helped his mother into the wheelchair. It was thawing now. Snow receded from the garden under the first real sun. Trees shivered in the breeze, and Sylvia sat outside for hours, finally smiling. She breathed deep, gazed at the sky, crying tears of happiness. She was home, surrounded by her beloved garden, her battered little cottage, the birdsong and the scent of earth she’d always known. That night, she ate properly, spent hours outside once more, a smile never leaving her lips. By morning, she was gone. She passed away, smiling—at peace. Alex and Marina took time off to bury Mrs. Peterson, clear the cottage, and decide what to do with the house. Alex, in truth, just wanted to breathe in the intoxicating village air; for years, he’d never spent more than a weekend here. Mere hours before their return to the city, Marina suddenly felt ill. In the bathroom, she found herself sick. When she emerged, her eyes were huge with disbelief, clutching a pregnancy test—she’d carried them everywhere, always in vain. This time, there were two blue lines. “It’s your mum… Mrs. Peterson helped us,” she whispered through happy tears. Alex looked to the sky, then, with a grateful nod, hugged his wife tightly. It was his mother’s final gift—the most precious of all.

Let Me Go, Please

Im not leaving Im not going anywhere, the woman mumbles, her words barely audible. This is my home, I cant just abandon it. Theres a tremble in her voice, tears unfallen but heavy.

Mum, says the man, trying to sound gentle. You know I cant give you the care you need Youve got to understand.

James feels the weight of sadness pressing down on him. He watches as his mother sits on the sagging, worn settee in the parlour of her childhood cottage in a small Somerset village.

Its alright. Ill manage on my own, you dont need to look after me, she insists stubbornly. Just let me be.

James knows very well that she cant, not now. It was a stroke. His mother, Edith Lawson, has always been frail. He remembers when he had to take several months leave from work to care for her after she broke her leg. Despite her brave face back then, she was barely able to stand without his help at first.

Recently, James had finally started to do well for himself and had planned to spend the summer renovating the old cottage, making it as comfortable as possible for his mum. Then the stroke came. Renovations no longer matteredhe had to bring her to the city.

Emily will pack your things, he nods to his wife. Just let her know if theres anything you want.

Edith doesnt reply. She goes on gazing out the window where a gentle autumn breeze rustles the golden leaves of ancient oaks shes known all her life. Her right handthe one that still worksgrips her lifeless left tightly.

Emily rifles through the wardrobe, questioning her mother-in-law about what to take. Edith only stares out the window. Her thoughts seem far from threadbare cardigans or broken spectacles.

Edith Lawson was born in the very village where shes lived all of her sixty-eight years. Over time, the village has slowly withered and emptied. Shes spent a lifetime as a seamstressfirst at the village tailors, which closed as folk left, and then working from home. As time passed, there was less work, so she put her heart into tending her vegetable garden and keeping her home. She cant even imagine leaving it all behind for a big, alien city flat

James, she hasnt eaten again, sighs Emily, setting an untouched plate on the kitchen table. I dont know how much longer I can keep this up. I just have nothing left to give

James looks at his wife, then at the uneaten food, shaking his head silently. He sighs deeply and goes to his mothers room. Edith is on the settee, staring out the window, unblinking, her faded grey eyes forlorn. Her good hand lays on her limp one, gripping it as if she still hopes to bring it back to life. The room is crowded with exercise bands, hand grips, a pile of medication on the bedside table. Were it not for Jamess persistence, shed have nothing to do with any of it.

Mum?

No response.

Mum?

Jamie? she manages, her voice soft and slurredsince the stroke, speech has been hard, words tangled and thick. Its gotten better, but some days are worse than others.

Why havent you eaten? Emilys tried her best. You havent eaten much for days.

I just dont want to, love, Edith replies quietly, turning her face to him. Really. I dont. Please dont force me.

Mum is there anything you do want? Just say the word James sits beside her, and she takes his hand.

You know what I want, love. To go home. Im afraid Ill never see it again.

James sighs, shakes his head.

You know I work every day, Mum, and Emilys always with doctors. Its winter. Travelling out there now Could we wait at least until spring?

Edith nods. James smiles a little, stands, and heads out.

I just hope its not too late, son not too late.

Im sorry, IVF hasnt workedagain, the doctor says quietly, removing her glasses as she looks at the young woman across the desk.

Emily gasps, covering her face with her hands. But how? Why is it everyone else manages? You said its normal the first time, only forty percent succeed on the first go. But this is our third timeand still nothing! Why?

James sits silently, holding his wifes hand, tension in every line of his body. In the clinics adjacent wing, Edith is having her massage; its nearly time to fetch her.

Please listen, the doctor begins, voice gentle. I understand, truly. Having a child means everything to you, but youre fixated. Youre under so much stress, your body is

Of course Im stressed! I have to work from home to pay for this horrendously expensive IVF, trudge to appointments, take endless pills that ruin my body, look after your mother-in-law and cope with all her moods. One day she wont eat, the next she refuses her medicine! Is it wrong I want a baby? Maybe then my husband would notice me, not just his mother!

Emily stops abruptly, realising shes gone too far. She grabs her bag and flees the office, slamming the door behind her.

Sorry, James murmurs to the doctor.

Dont worry, she sighs. Ive seen worse. Its alright.

James leaves quietly. He finds Emily on the waiting room sofa, head in hands, her small frame shaking with sobs. She looks up, red-eyed and tearful.

Im sorry I didnt mean what I said about your mum. Im just so tired. Tired of watching someone fade before my eyes. Tired of single lines on all the tests, tired of shelling out thousands of pounds on cycle after cycle with nothing to show. I just cant

If I could, Id fix everything for you both. But I cant

I know, Emily smiles weakly through tears. I really do.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, holding hands. Eventually Emily stands, smoothing her shirt and forcing herself to smile.

Come on. Edith must be finished by now. She hates hospitals. They always leave her so low.

…

Theres very little progress with your mum, the old GP says softly, his short frame and round spectacles making him look a little like a kindly owl. He and James have stepped aside, out of Ediths earshot. Emily remains at her side. You see, when you first brought her here, I genuinely believed she could recover. After a stroke, the odds arent great, but she didnt smoke, no chronic illnesses. She had every chance.

But nothings happening. I see it too.

I think its because she doesnt want to recover. Shes let go. Theres no spark in her eyes, no fire left its like she doesnt want to live

James nods. Hes seen it as well. Edith has withered, shed two stone at least, and become a shadow of the woman he knew. Day after day, she sits motionless, staring through the window. She doesnt read, has no interest in TV, barely speaks. Just stares.

After strokes, some people experience changed behaviourcertain parts of the brain can make life very hard, the GP adds. But in your mums case, I didnt expect such rapid decline. Not at first.

I think its something else, James whispers.

James, Emily says on the phone, her voice tight, can you cancel your trip? Ediths much worse. Im scared you might not make it back in time

Its hard for her to say. She knows how much Jamess mum means to him. And though shes never been close to Edith, her heart aches watching her fade day by day. Once, Edith watched birds from the window, sometimes listening to old vinyl recordsbrought from the cottage, inherited from her late husband, a music teacher. Now she just lies there, unmoving, eyes fixed on one spot. She hasnt touched a meal in days. Only milkthough she always said city milk couldnt compare with the village. Now its all she drinks.

James comes home that same night and goes straight to his mother, keeping vigil by her bed till dawn.

You know what I want. You promised me.

James nods. Yes, he promised.

The next day, they drive to the village. Edith refuses to see the doctor.

I dont want to go to hospital. I just want to go home.

Its March now, and by some miracle, the country lanes are still passablethe spring thaw is gentle this year. Theyre able to park right up at the cottage gate. James opens the car door, helps his mother into her wheelchair.

Icy drips are tapping from the roof, with mounds of snow retreating from the warming ground. Trees stir in the mild breeze, sunlight growing stronger. Edith sits in the garden for hours, at last wearing a smile. She breathes deeply, gazes at the sky, and her tearsthis timeare happy ones. She is home. She looks at her crooked little cottage, feels the suns warmth, savours the country air and the glimmer of melting snow.

That evening, Edith eats for the first time in ages, then sits outside until night falls. Her smile never fades. And that night, she passes away. Smiling still. At peace at last.

James and Emily take time off work, tending to the funeral and her affairs, clearing the cottage and making decisions. Truthfully, James just wants to spend time here, breathing the intoxicating air of the countryside, where he hasnt stayed more than a couple of days in years.

On their last morning before leaving for London, Emily is struck with a sudden wave of nausea and rushes to the bathroom. She comes out, eyes wide, holding a pregnancy testone of many shes carried, always disappointed. But this time, there are two lines. Two.

Its heryour mumEdith did this Shes given us this, Emily whispers through her tears.

James looks up into the clear, blue sky, nods, and hugs his wife tight. Its a gift from his mothertheir last, and the most precious one of all.