**The House Where Love Remained**
Victor had moved to the neighbouring village and decided straight away he would build his own home. The small, run-down cottage left by his late aunt became his temporary refuge. He worked tirelessly—fixing the porch, replacing the roof—until one day, he spotted her. Walking up the dusty lane from the bus stop was a slender woman carrying a shopping bag. Margaret. So polished, so unmistakably *city*, with her straight posture.
*”Now, there’s a woman I’d marry,”* he thought.
Days later, he saw her again near the village shop. He simply walked up and said,
*”I’m Victor. You’re Margaret, aren’t you? Fancy a proper introduction?”*
Margaret flushed. A man like him—young, strong, and clearly interested—when she had already seen so much of life? But Victor was persistent, kind. Soon, they were seeing each other. And then, a year later, the unexpected happened—he proposed. A real gold ring, with a proper stone set in it.
She could hardly believe her luck. Fifty-eight years old, and Victor only three years younger. Just the two of them now—their son had long since moved away, married, settled down somewhere up north. Their granddaughter was five, and though visits were rare, Margaret treasured every call, every scribbled drawing.
That evening, she sat by the window. The spoons rested in the half-eaten stew, cooling, while unease coiled in her chest. Victor had left at dawn for the fields—planting season. He’d said they’d finish today. Still, no sign of him.
Her mind drifted back to childhood. The eldest of six, crammed into a tiny house with her parents and frail grandmother. Everything had fallen to her—chores, looking after the little ones. No toys, no Christmas tree—not until school, where she first saw the wonder of tinsel, the glow of fairy lights.
Then, like thunder—her father gone. Two months later, her grandmother. Her mother, left alone with six children. Margaret was in Year Three. Childhood ended. She took the old woman’s place—cooking, cleaning, holding the youngest when they cried. Her hand never healed right after the fall from the barn loft. Fingers stiff, but she never complained.
After Year Eight, she enrolled in trade school. For the first time, she felt happy. Friends, praise from the tutors, learning dressmaking. She became skilled, working mostly one-handed. Even went abroad once—one of ten top students chosen.
But her mother crushed her dream of marrying Paul, a kind lad from school. *”Why bother? Loneliness is your lot.”* Those words broke something in her.
When the factory closed, she returned to the village. And there, she met Victor.
Now here they were. Years later. A home built. A son raised. And tonight—just waiting for the gate to creak open.
Then—footsteps. Victor, weary but smiling.
*”Petal, it’s done. Planting’s finished. Tomorrow, we rest.”*
And in those words was such warmth—all the old pains, the betrayals, the losses, vanished. She knew it now—this life, finally, was hers. And in it: love.
