I am sixty years old now, long retired and living life at my own pace. For the past ten years, I have lived alone, without husband, children, or friends nearby. My children are busy with their own lives and families, settled in other towns. My husband has long since passed away, and my joy has become my little country cottagea haven of happiness and amusement. As soon as the weather warms, I move there, clean the house and tend the garden, plant flowers, and make lovely borders for all to admire. I always felt a sense of peace and contentment in that special place.
But the cottage is impossible to stay in during the wintersnow makes everything difficult, and I simply have no one to help clear it. So, Im forced to return to the city as autumn gives way to frost. I can usually manage the transition in late autumn. Just this past September, I caught a small cold and had to stay in town for a week longer than usual. As soon as I felt better and the chill eased, I hurried straight back to my beloved little village.
As I neared my cottage, I noticed the gate had been left swinging wide open. For a moment I wondered if someone had wandered into the garden. Everything outside appeared as Id left it, but then I noticed the front door was openI feared the house had been burgled! I entered quietly, heart pounding. Yet inside, nothing seemed disturbedexcept for a blanket I hadnt used, and a mug left out on the table I always clear away the dishes! Something was amiss.
While the first surge of fear subsided, it was quickly replaced by annoyance. Who did they think they were, coming in here and using my mug? I looked out the window, and there behind the house sat a peculiar little boy, warming himself by a fire, hands stretched close to the flames. There was my mystery visitor.
I stepped outside, coughed, and waited to see his reaction. The little rascal started, clearly frightened, but rather than run, he came straight towards me:
Please, madam, forgive me. Ive only just arrived
He was quiet and humblea small boy who immediately softened my heart.
How long have you been here? Have you eaten? I asked gently.
Only for two days I havent eaten much I had some bread, just a bit left
With a certain pride, he produced a fishing rod, a crust of white bread skewered on the hook.
Whats your name, lad? And how did you end up here?
My name is William. My mother and stepfather sent me away. I dont want to live with them anymore
I suppose the whole village is out looking for you by now.
Theyre not. Its always the same. This isnt the first time Ive run away. I can be gone for weeks, no one even seems to notice. When I do go back, its only when Im really hungry, and no one is glad to see me
As it turned out, William wasnt even from our village. It was the terribly familiar talehis mother unemployed, new stepfathers as often as the weather changes, little food in the house, but plenty of drink.
After hearing his story, my heart was heavyhow could I help? Naturally, I let the boy stay, gave him a proper meal, and spent the night pondering what I should do next. In the morning, I remembered an old acquaintance who was something in the local authority. I decided Id ring herif she couldnt help directly, shed at least know the right place to go.
She assured me she could lend a hand and promised to look into it herself. It did mean making calls and gathering a fair few official papers, but after a couple of weeks, I was made Williams legal guardian. He could hardly believe his luckhis mother never once asked after him.
Now, we live as grandmother and grandsoncosy in my city flat during winter, and spending the best months at the cottage. Soon, William will begin school, and Im certain hell do brilliantlyhes already reading, writing, counting well, and his drawings are simply wonderful! Oh, how he sketchesjust like a true artistNow, laughter and youthful energy echo where once there was only silence. William chases the morning sun across the dewy lawn, calls out names for the birds, and invents wild adventures in the orchards. He brings inside pinecones and pebbles, muddy boots and a fresh world each day. I catch myself smiling at the thought of how a lonely heart can be mended by unexpected companya boy needing shelter, an old woman finding renewed purpose.
Sometimes, passersby from the village stop to admire our handiworkflowers blooming in tangled colors, windows shining with cheerful drawings. They ask about the little boy who seems to belong as much to the place as I do, and I just say he was a blessing blown in on an autumn wind.
And in gentle moments, as dusk settles and William curls up beside me with a storybook, I realize something simple and profound: joy multiplies when shared. The cottage, once a haven of solitude, has become a true homeits halls now filled with hope, promise, and laughter. At sixty, I thought I had experienced all that life could offer, but in the smallest hands, I found the greatest gift: the chance to begin again.
