**Dear Diary,**
“Mum, why did you decide this? We live in warmth and comfort now, and you’re all alone, out in the middle of nowhere, in that old house?” Emily’s voice was full of reproach, nearly trembling with tears.
“Don’t worry, love. I’ve already grown attached to the earth here. My soul’s been longing for quiet for ages,” replied Victoria calmly as she packed the last of her things into the suitcase.
She had made the choice deliberately, without regret. Their tiny city flat—where the four of them had crowded together—her, her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson—had simply grown too small. The constant arguments between Emily and Matthew, the sharp words, the slamming doors—it all weighed on her more than the cramped walls ever could. And little Alfie was older now; Victoria realised she wasn’t needed as a nanny anymore. Her care had become a burden.
The cottage in the countryside, left to her by her grandmother, had seemed like fate’s joke at first. But then she looked at the old photos—the overgrown apple orchard, the attic still holding childhood toys—and something clicked. That was where she belonged. Peace, memories, silence… and maybe something new. Her heart told her it was time.
She moved in a single day. Emily begged her not to go, pleaded through floods of tears, but Victoria only smiled and stroked her daughter’s hair. She wasn’t angry. She understood—young people had their own lives. And now, she had hers.
The cottage greeted her with weeds and a broken fence. The ceiling sagged a little, the floor creaked, and the air smelled of damp neglect. Yet instead of fear, Victoria felt resolve. She rolled up her sleeves and set to work. By evening, the lamps were lit, the place smelled of fresh air and steeped tea, and in the corner by the wood stove sat a stack of books and a knitted blanket she’d brought from the city.
The next day, she went to the village shop for paint, cloths, and bits for the house. On her way back, she spotted a man across the lane, digging in his garden. Tall, with silver temples but a warm smile.
“Good afternoon,” Victoria greeted him first.
“Afternoon. Just passing through, or have you moved in?” he asked, wiping his hands on an old cloth.
“For good. I’m Victoria. Came down from London. My grandmother’s place.”
“James Wilson. Live just over there. If you need a hand with anything, just ask. Folks round here look out for each other.”
“Thank you. Fancy popping in for tea? We can toast the new house. Get to know each other properly.”
And so it began. They sat for hours on the porch, drinking tea with jam, talking about life. Turned out James was a widower. His son had left for the city years ago, hardly called, and almost never visited. Like Victoria, he hadn’t felt needed in a long time.
From that day on, he became a regular visitor. He brought timber to fix the fence, mended the roof, and stacked firewood. In the evenings, they sat beneath the lantern, chatting, reminiscing, reading aloud.
Slowly, life fell into place. Victoria planted flowers, tended the apple trees, baked scones that drew neighbours in. Emily rang often, begging her to come back, saying how much she missed her. Victoria just smiled. “Love, I’m not alone here. I’m home. And for the first time in years, I’m truly happy.”
And so two lonely hearts found each other. Among the old walls, the quiet lanes, the waist-high grass. Proving it’s never too late to start again. That in an old house, a new life can bloom.
