The House Where Love Stayed
Victor moved to the neighboring village and decided at once he would build a life there. The little old cottage left by his great-aunt became his temporary shelter. He worked tirelessly—fixing the porch, patching the roof—until one day, he saw a slender woman walking down the dusty road from the bus stop, a shopping bag in hand. Evelyn. So polished, so upright, so unlike the village.
“A wife like that,” flashed through his mind.
Days later, he found her near the village shop. He simply walked up and said,
“I’m Victor. You’re Evelyn, aren’t you? Fancy getting acquainted?”
Evelyn flushed. A man like him—strong, younger—interested in *her*, a woman who’d seen her share of life. But Victor was kind, persistent. They began courting. A year later, the unexpected happened: he proposed, slipping a ring onto her finger—real gold, with a stone.
Evelyn could hardly believe her luck. At fifty-eight, with Victor just three years her junior, she’d thought love had passed her by. They lived alone; her son had long since moved to another county—studied, married, stayed. Her granddaughter was five now, visits few, but Evelyn waited for every call, every photo.
That evening, she sat by the window. The stew on the table grew cold, unease settling in her chest. Victor had left at dawn for the fields—sowing season. Said they’d finish today. Yet he still wasn’t back.
She remembered her childhood—the eldest of six, crammed into a tiny house with her parents and frail grandmother. The weight of chores, pennies stretched thin. No toys. No Christmas tree—she’d first seen one at school, twinkling lights and carols, laughter like bells.
Then, thunderstrike—her father gone. Two months later, her grandmother. Her mother alone with six children. Evelyn, only in Year Three, became the woman of the house—cooking, cleaning, minding the little ones. Her hand never quite healed after the fall from the hayloft, fingers stiff, but she carried on.
After Year Nine, she went to trade school. For the first time, she felt happy—friends, praise from her teachers, learning. She became a seamstress, sewing masterpieces with one good hand. Even traveled abroad—one of the top ten students, her pride.
But her mother crushed her dream of marrying Paul, a kind lad from school. “Why bother? Loneliness is your fate.” Those words broke something in her.
After the factory closed, she returned to the village. And there, she saw Victor.
Now, years later—they’d built a home, raised a son. And tonight, she waited, watching the gate.
Then—there he was. Victor, weary but smiling.
“Sweetheart, we’re done. Sowing’s finished. Tomorrow—rest at last.”
In those words, warmth unspooled, dissolving old pains, betrayals, losses. She knew, finally, her life belonged to her. And in it—love.
