July 21st
Sometimes I wonder if people ever truly let you go their own way. It seems as soon as I start building my own life, my family pops up again, dragging in the old ways and opinions I ran from in the first place.
“Jean, honestly, don’t fret yourself so much,” Arthur said in his lopsided, comforting way as we stood in the shadow of his cottage. “I know it’ll be a shock for a city girl in the countryside, but Ill help! Trust me, I know what Im doing. I just need you by my side.” His voice, warm and earnest, made me pause.
Truth is, my own heart had betrayed me. Why did I have to fall for a farmer, of all people, and so deeply that my knees went weak around him?
Im twenty-eight, well into my career in London, with my own flat (finally paid for after years of late nights). Arthurs thirty, owns a squat little house not far from the city, and has a flock of relatives. How did we even meet? By chance. Arthur had wandered into Hyde Park when his mum was bustling about Harrods. My friends had cajoled me out too. One look, a quick swap of numbers, and he seemed determined to chase menot just there, but up to the city, showing up attentive and thoughtful. It wasn’t long before I melted.
Arthurs so open, so genuinely kindit set him apart from every city lad Id ever dated. None of them would take time to plant potatoes or bring me homemade jam.
Then one day, he proposed, all blushes and fidgeting, and I, somewhat to my own surprise, said yes.
“Mum, what do you think?” I rang back home. “Arthur’s decent,” she allowed. “Sturdy as they come, and kind. Give it a shot. If it doesn’t work, youre always welcome home.”
Honestly, what did I have to lose? My job had gone hybridremote work was now the norm. And I wasn’t a teenager anymore. Plus, everyone says the air in the countryside does wonders.
“But Arthur,” I ventured before the move, “what am I to people there, exactly?”
“My fiancée. Wedding in a year, then well take that holiday. By then, I should have enough saved so we wont have to count every penny.” He went scarlet as he said it. “I know youre used to better things.”
I couldnt quite shake an unsettled feeling, but what was the worst that could happen? On a whim, I took a weeks leave, packed up my clothes, locked my treasured two-bed flat, and headed down to Kent, where Arthur waited.
That first evening surprised me. Summer heat clung to the cottage, but we worked side by side, watering the garden and cooking together. It felt right.
On Friday, Arthur strode in early, brimming with news: “My parents are coming, love! And my brother and his wife, too!”
“What for?” I asked, nerves swirling.
“To meet you and help us out,” he said, pacing. “Shouldnt be for long… I hope. Well get through it, love, dont worry.”
Of course, I did worry. “Think of it as a test,” my mother quipped over the phone. “Fail, you can still bail. Remember, you aren’t trapped.”
She was right. I wasnt married yet. Why should I let them terrify me?
I was just laying out the evening meal when headlights swept the driveway. Arthur appeared: “Theyre here!” We went out together.
“Oh, hello, future daughter-in-law!” boomed Mrs. Evans, stout in a floral dress, with a short, dark crop and impossibly thick lashes. She gave Arthur a bear hug. Mr. Evans, round-bellied, nodded at me in a polite, distant way.
Arthurs brother, tall and sporting a cheeky grin, greeted me easily. His wife, a butter-blonde vision named Claire, barely smiled at me and muttered to her husband.
“Stop gawping and start helping,” Claire barked, making a beeline for the boot of the car.
Bravely, I led everyone inside, hoping dinner would break the ice. After all, I did know my way around a roast.
“Ooh, look at this!” Mrs. Evans exclaimed. “Gone all out, you have!” Mr. Evans grunted his approval.
Claire, on the other hand, poked her fork disparagingly at my chicken. “Who cooks like this? Honestly, what happened to the classics?”
“It tastes great, actually,” her husband, Tom, shot back.
“Youd eat anything!” she snapped, laying her fork aside.
Arthur shot me an apologetic look. “Claire, a bit of respect, please. And dont be so obvious with the envyJeans worked hard.”
“And who picked that name, Jean? Our old Jersey cows called Jean,” Claire said poisonously.
I stifled a laugh.
“Whats funny?” Arthur murmured.
“One of my friends has a guinea pig called Claire,” I whispered. The table heard. Mrs. Evans shot me daggers; the men glanced at each other, barely suppressing laughter. Claire turned crimson.
“How darewho do you think you are?” Her glare could have started a fire.
“Well, you started it. I thought youd appreciate such banter,” I shrugged, trying my best English indifference.
Tom looked at me like I was a local hero.
“Im Toms wifelegally. What are you? Just shacked up with Arthur,” Claire huffed, standing.
“At least Ive manners. When Im a guest, I dont insult the cook,” I said evenly.
“I didnt come here for you,” Claire sniffed.
“I didnt invite you,” Arthur retorted, his patience fading. “How long are you staying, anyway?”
Dead silence. Eventually, Mrs. Evans filled the gap: “Once shes learned how to cope in the country, well go.”
“Mum, honestly, we were doing fine on our own. We can cope.”
“Bet shell tire of you once the novelty wears off,” Claire jeered.
“We know who the lazy one is in this family, and its not Jean,” Arthur replied swiftly. “Now, thanks for supper, everyone. Time for a rest.” He took my hand, and together we cleared up, ignoring the ticked-off stares from everyone else.
That night, as I washed dishes, I realised that having someone like Arthur at my back made all the difference. I wouldnt let anyone bully me here. If it came down to it, I still had my freedom and my London flat to return to.
Saturday morning was a far cry from peaceful. Mrs. Evans stormed in at 8am. “Still in bed? Its almost noon! Time to get breakfast started!”
I eyed my phone in disbelief.
“In the fridge is everything youll need for breakfast,” I said, dragging the covers up. “Mind if I get dressed?”
“Arent you the lady of the manor!” she sniffed, flapping out of the room and slamming the door. I forced myself up, sorted my hair, and joined the fray downstairs.
“Morning, love! Youre up early,” Arthur beamed, busy at the stove.
“Shed still be snoring if I hadnt got her going,” Mrs. Evans muttered.
I gritted my teeth.
“Mum, why did you barge into our bedroom? I asked you not to,” Arthur said, astonished.
“Looks like weve caught a right layabout, eh, Claire?” Mrs. Evans laughed.
“Dont remember asking for your opinion!” I shot back at Claire.
“Its how things are out hereup with the dawn. If you two ever get a cow, youll be up milking her at six sharp,” Claire sneered.
“Were not planning on keeping cows,” Arthur replied calmly.
“Youd rather buy your milk, I suppose? Because Jean doesnt know how to milk one! She wouldnt last a week,” Claire giggled nastily.
“Can you milk one, then?” Arthur grinned. “You seem to be managing just fine without.”
“Since Jean arrived, youve become difficult, Arthur,” Mrs. Evans tutted.
Id had enough. “Arthur, Im going home for now. Call me when this circus has left, if you want,” I said, grabbing my bag.
Mrs. Evans exploded. “Since you turned up, my sons forgotten his family! We barely see him these days! And you expect us to welcome you? Youre tearing us apart!”
“Enough!” Arthur thundered. The kitchen froze.
“You dont like that I want my own family? I left to start something new, and here you all are, dragging me back!”
“But sonshes only after your money,” Mrs. Evans wailed. “You slave away, and she sits back!”
“Mum, Jean earns her own living. Im saving up for the wedding. If you want my happiness, go home. Visit by invitation onlyespecially you, Claire!”
The family were stunned, but Arthur steered me gently back to our room. As he returned, the others began to hurriedly pack.
“Son, choose: me or her,” Mrs. Evans tried.
“But Claires good enough for you,” Arthur replied flatly, disappointment clouding his features.
“Well, shes not the same,” Claire snorted.
Arthurs father and brother just watched, quietly amused by this family spectacle.
“Well?” Mrs. Evans prodded.
“I choose happiness,” Arthur declared, staring his mother down.
“Then youre no longer my son.” She swept out, leaving her bags for her husband to collect. Claire stormed after her. Mr. Evans smiled kindly at Arthur. “Dont worry, son, Ill handle your mum. Were with you.” Tom hugged Arthur. “Mind you hold onto your happiness, mate. Its time we changed things up in this family.”
And with that, they left.
I felt awkward, but for the first time ever, I realised how serious Arthur was about me. We returned to our routines together, supporting each other, aware that sometimes love required more resilience than wed imagined.
Meanwhile, back at Mrs. Evans:
“Mum! Claire! Weve bought a cow for you both!” Tom announced one morning.
“What? Are you mad?” Mrs. Evans queried, eyeing her son warily.
“No. Claires to milk it first thing every morning and walk her to the field,” Tom replied, deadpan.
“Are you insane, Tom? This is absurd,” Claire sputtered.
“Well, since you were so set on teaching Jean rural ways, its only fair,” Mr. Evans chimed in. “And, by the way, mum, breakfast at seven every daysomething traditional and hot. Farmers hours now!”
And so the tables turned. Everything thrown at me, they now had to try themselves. Mrs. Evans soon understood shed been too harsh with me, especially since no one expected her to juggle work and chores the way I had. They struggled. There simply wasnt time. Eventually, Mrs. Evans patched things up with Arthur. Shes still nervous about visitingwho knows what new things Ive picked up lately?
Arthur, at last, proposed properly. The wedding was a joyeveryone dancedeven Mrs. Evans and Claire, who had learned to hold their tongues.
I am happy, truly happy. We still share all the chores, look out for each other, and never fear unexpected guests. After all, its our home now.
