The Inherited Cottage
“How can you possibly decide to do this?” her daughter asked, bewildered. “Mum, you’ll be all alone in that village—aren’t you scared?”
“People are everywhere,” Margaret Whitaker replied calmly. “I’ll make friends there, don’t you worry. But you must visit me—I’ll always welcome you. As for the city, I’ll never go back. I’ve waited for my pension like a reward. And the cottage is lovely—even got it on instalments. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Margaret’s spirits were high. Not only had she realised her dream of a countryside cottage near the town, but there was another reason to leave. Her daughter Sarah was already thirty and still hadn’t settled down. So Margaret decided to leave the flat to Sarah, hoping it might help her find happiness.
“You take care of the place,” Margaret said, hugging Sarah before boarding the bus that would carry her toward her new life. “I’ll pop in when I come to town for shopping.”
Adjusting to village life came quickly to Margaret. She didn’t miss the city flat at all—she’d always preferred spending time at her old suburban garden plot, which she’d sold since she no longer needed it. The village had everything: a shop, a bus route, even a small clinic and a library.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Margaret would often say aloud, stretching her arms as she stepped onto the porch each morning. The neighbours were kind, always offering help, but she refused—she was determined to manage everything herself.
At first, Sarah visited often, struggling with her mother’s absence and worrying about her. After all, they’d lived side by side for years, and now Sarah felt the pressure to start a family, not wanting to let her mother down. Margaret had made that much clear.
Spring was warm and damp.
“Perfect weather for sowing,” remarked her neighbour, seventy-year-old retiree John Bennett. “Damp earth means a good harvest.”
Margaret didn’t just tend her garden—she also took in chickens and ducks, thanks to the sturdy old barn on the property. She moved like a woman half her age, rising at dawn to feed the birds, open the greenhouse, and weed the beds. Her old city cat, Baron, followed her everywhere, eyeing the chickens with suspicion.
“Don’t worry, Baron, you’ll get used to it,” she’d say. “Look at you—already acting like the master of the house.”
Soon, a scruffy stray dog named Scamp joined the household. Once a village beggar, shivering through the winters, he now stayed close to Margaret, gazing gratefully as she filled his bowl each morning with porridge and meat scraps. He settled under the porch until John built him a proper kennel at Margaret’s request.
Word spread about the kind, hardworking new neighbour, and the villagers greeted her warmly.
Sarah, however, still felt a pang of guilt.
“How can I ever repay you, Mum?” she’d ask on weekend visits.
But when Sarah met her Daniel, she understood her mother’s sacrifice. They married, and within a year, Sarah gave birth to a daughter, Lily.
“You’ve repaid me already,” Margaret would laugh, delighted. “Our family goes on! You must bring Lily for the summer—I’ll get a goat so she can have fresh milk.”
Years passed, and Margaret became a true countrywoman. Sarah and Daniel visited often—to help in the garden, enjoy the wood-fired sauna, or stock up on preserves.
“Aren’t you tired of all this work?” Sarah would ask. “You’re not young anymore—past seventy now. And we only visit now and then. Both of us work, and Lily will start school soon.”
“I’m managing fine,” Margaret would say. “If it gets too much, I’ll cut back. But what would I do without them? Stare out the window? They keep me busy.”
Even when age brought aches and pains, Margaret clung to her ducks and goat. Eventually, she kept only the chickens. Scamp and Baron had passed, but two abandoned cats, Misty and Pippin, found their way to her door.
“No more animals, Mum,” Sarah pleaded. “I’m worn out from all the back-and-forth. I’m no spring chicken myself—soon I’ll be retiring.”
Sarah’s marriage didn’t last. She and Daniel divorced after Lily finished school and left for university in London. He supported their daughter’s education, and Sarah poured everything into it too. After graduating, Lily stayed in the city, married, and built her own life.
So Sarah found herself alone in the flat again, with only occasional visits from Lily and her family.
Meanwhile, Margaret grew frail. They scaled back the garden, but every time Sarah visited, she begged her mother to return to the city.
“Won’t you come with me? There’s a hospital nearby, your old room’s waiting, and I won’t have to keep worrying about you.”
But Margaret refused.
“Why should I burden you with my ailments? You might still find someone—you’re not old yet. But I won’t live forever, nor should I. I’m happy here. The best years of my life have been in this cottage.”
Sarah had no choice but to accept it. She understood—her heart told her so.
With just two months left until her fifty-fifth birthday, Sarah promised, “Hang on—I’ll retire soon and come stay with you. We’ll tend the garden and fix up the house.”
But Margaret didn’t live to see it. Neighbours called—Margaret had gone to sleep and never woken. Quietly, peacefully.
“She looked like an angel,” they said. “Just asleep. The good Lord took her gently.”
After the funeral, Sarah planned to sell the cottage. The neighbours sighed and spread the word. But to collect her mother’s things, Sarah returned forty days later for a week—to tidy up and find homes for Misty and Pippin, who’d been fed by neighbours in her absence.
Approaching the cottage, her heart clenched. Her mother had lived here happily for nearly twenty-five years. Sarah herself had poured sweat and love into this soil, the garden, the sauna, the roof—too much to count.
The cats greeted her, mewing and winding around her legs.
“Here you are—proper food this time. Hungry, aren’t you?” She filled their bowls, stroking their backs. “Mum loved you so much. And now you’re orphans.”
Inside, she flung open the windows and set to work. Within hours, the cottage came alive—soup simmered, potatoes sizzled, firewood crackled in the stove, the old wall clock ticked again.
“There,” Sarah smiled. “Just like when Mum was here.”
A wave of grief and warmth washed over her, and she wept before her mother’s photograph.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. It was John’s son—Alex Bennett, retired five years ago and now living alone in his father’s house.
“Welcome back. Made a decision yet? Smells good in here.”
“Join me,” Sarah said. “I can’t bear to eat alone. It was always Mum and me before.”
“Gladly.” Alex washed his hands as she set another bowl of soup on the table, then brought out the fried potatoes.
“You know,” Alex said suddenly, “our lives aren’t so different. My dad passed, I came back, and here I’ve stayed. Your mum’s gone—and here you are. Maybe we should stick to the places that made our parents happy. What do you think?”
“You’re right,” Sarah said. “But it’s not easy—changing everything.”
“Easier than wasting away in some city flat, glued to the telly. Here, you’ll never be bored. Forest, river, garden—and these two.” They glanced at the cats, now curled contentedly by the stove.
Sarah smiled. “I’m not leaving, Alex. I’ve just decided.”
A week later, she returned to the city—not to stay, but to rent out her flat. First, she packed what she’d need for good.
“Look who’s back, Misty, Pippin!” The cats purred like tiny engines.
“Hello there!” Alex called from his gate. “Tea at mine today—come quick before the potatoes go cold! I’ve warmed your stove a bit, too.”
And so Sarah stayed, to her daughter’s surprise. But when Lily visited—to soak in the sauna and introduce her own little daughter, Natalie—she beamed.
“I’m so glad you kept Granny’s cottage. We all love it here. I’ll visit as much as I can, especially once Nat’s older. She should breathe this air, just like I did. Granny always said life tastes sweeter in the garden, didn’t she?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Sarah said. “And like Mum before me, I’ll always wait for you—the ones I love most.”
Sunlight warmed the orchard, the apple branches heavy with fruit. Sarah propped them up, lest they snap.
“Blimey, what a harvest! What’ll we”We’ll make pies, cider, and jam enough to last the winter,” Sarah laughed, handing a ripe apple to little Natalie as the cottage garden hummed with the quiet joy of generations rooted in the same beloved soil.
