Picking mushrooms to survive on my small Social Security check, I fell into an underground hideout… What I saw inside made my hair stand on end…

Who would have thought that an ordinary trip to pick mushrooms, which I sell at the farmers’ market to make ends meet, would turn into me falling into a dark underground bunker. I never imagined that in our well-trodden forest, something like that could be hidden.

But what I discovered inside, on the damp ground in an old metal box, not only upended my understanding of my own life but also revealed a heavy secret that my late husband took with him. And truly, it turned out to be far more astonishing than any treasures one could imagine. My name is Mary Thompson, and my life, like that of many women my age, flows steadily and modestly.

My husband, John, has been gone for five years now, leaving me with our only son Michael, and his wife Sarah. They live separately, in their mortgaged apartment, always complaining about the lack of money. My Social Security check is small, and to avoid being a burden on my son, I found myself a side job.

In summer and fall, I go to the woods for mushrooms and berries, then sell them near the bus stop. It’s a small income, but it’s mine, and it’s good for the soul. In the forest, I relax, remembering how John and I used to come here when we were young.

He was an avid mushroom hunter, knew all the paths, all the secret clearings. Lately, Michael and Sarah have been visiting me more often with talks. «Mom, why do you need a three-bedroom apartment all to yourself?» Sarah would usually start in a coaxing voice.

«The utilities are expensive, cleaning is hard. Sell it, buy yourself a one-bedroom closer to us, and with the leftover money, you can help us with the mortgage and set some aside for yourself.» Michael would usually stay silent, averting his eyes.

He understood that the apartment was the only thing left from my past life, from him and his father; every corner here holds memories. But Sarah was a sharp and practical girl, didn’t care for sentiments. She saw in my apartment not a family nest, but square footage that could be profitably exchanged for money.

I brushed them off as best I could, saying I was fine here, that I still had strength, but with each visit, the pressure grew. They had even found a realtor, showed me options on the outskirts of the city; I felt cornered. And so, one such morning, after another unpleasant conversation, to distract myself, I grabbed a basket and went to the forest…