Too Late for Happiness? No. Just Right on Time…
When Vera moved to a quiet little village in the Cotswolds, she never imagined it would be the start of a whole new chapter. The cottage had been left to her by a distant aunt—a bit creaky, with a lopsided porch. But from day one, Vera decided she’d fix it up and make it her own. She dreamed of a cozy home filled with laughter, the scent of beef stew, and peaceful moments of warmth and comfort.
One afternoon, while finishing up the extension, she spotted a woman walking from the bus stop—tall, elegant, with an unmistakable air of city sophistication. “Now there’s a proper lady,” Vera thought. It was her new neighbor, Olivia.
Later, they bumped into each other outside the village shop.
“I heard you’re Vera? I’m Olivia,” she said, offering a smile and a handshake.
Just like that, their friendship began. Olivia charmed Vera—smart, kind, steady. At first, they were just neighbors chatting over the fence, then they found themselves meeting more often, until one day Vera admitted to herself: she was head over heels.
Olivia was three years older—fifty-eight by then. Life hadn’t been easy for her—she’d worked hard, raised a son on her own after things fell apart with the boy’s father. Her son had grown up, gone off to university, married, and now lived with his family in another county. A five-year-old granddaughter existed in theory, but visits were rare.
Olivia often sat by the window, lost in memories of her childhood. Her family had been large—six children, parents, and a grandmother—all crammed into a tiny house with barely a penny to spare. Toys were a luxury. While their parents toiled on a nearby farm, their grandmother cooked, cleaned, and looked after the youngest.
Her father had been a carpenter, bringing in what money he could, though he usually stumbled home tipsy. Her mother argued with him, but he never laid a hand on the children. Then, when Vera was in Year 3, her father died suddenly. Shortly after, her grandmother passed too. Her mother was left alone with six children.
That was the day Vera’s childhood ended. She became a second mother—cooking, cleaning, looking after the little ones, forgetting about friends and games. Once, she fell off the shed at school and hurt her arm so badly the doctors couldn’t fix it properly. After that, her left hand never worked quite right. Chores became harder, but she never complained.
At boarding school (where she went after Year 8), Vera felt like a different person. For the first time, teachers praised her. She made friends, felt wanted. Best of all, she discovered sewing—working mostly one-handed, but somehow, her stitches were always neat and lovely. Her teachers couldn’t believe it. Her classmates were in awe. Twice a year, she’d come home with handmade gifts for her family.
In her second year, she fell for Andrew. He was kind, funny. She daydreamed about marrying him… until she told her mother, who replied coldly:
“What kind of future do you think you’ll have? With that bad arm? You’ll end up alone.”
The words stung. Andrew drifted away. After graduation, Vera found work, but the company shut down soon after. With no choice, she returned to the village. And that’s when her real life began.
Her neighbor turned out to be John—a widower who’d moved from the next village over. Tall, sturdy, with warm eyes. He courted her gently but firmly. Never mentioned her arm. Never looked at her with pity.
A year later, he proposed. She cried with happiness—she hadn’t believed it was possible. That someone could love her just as she was.
Years passed. They built a cozy home, raised a son, weathered life’s storms. Nowadays, Vera often simmers beef stew in the evenings, waiting for John to come in from the fields.
One evening, he walked through the gate, exhausted but grinning.
“That’s it, planting’s done. Now we can just live for ourselves.”
She adjusted the tea towel on the stove and smiled softly.
“I’ve always lived for you.”
