HE CAME… BECAUSE HE LOVES
Peter moved to the village of Hillside from a neighbouring county. At first, he stayed in a small, run-down cottage left by a distant aunt—just until his own house was built. One evening, as he nailed the last planks onto the veranda, he spotted her—a slender, well-dressed woman with a city air, walking from the bus stop. Lydia. That was his neighbour’s name.
“Beautiful… And such grace,” he thought. “A proper woman.”
A few days later, he met her outside the village shop. He didn’t bother with small talk.
“You’re Lydia, aren’t you? I asked around. I’m Peter. Let’s get acquainted?”
She flushed but glowed inside—this striking man had noticed *her*! Peter didn’t give up, and soon they were courting. A year later, he handed her a little box with a ring inside…
Many years have passed. Lydia is now fifty-eight, Peter three years younger. They live together in a cosy home with a new veranda. Their son, grown and settled far away, has a family of his own. Their bright-eyed five-year-old granddaughter, Emily, is their pride and joy.
That evening, Lydia waited for Peter to come home from work. He’d been out in the fields—spring planting was nearly done. She’d made beef stew, set the table, then lingered by the window.
“He’s late today… Said they’d finish early.”
Gazing outside, her mind wandered back. Her childhood had been hard. Born into a large family—six children, her the eldest—their tiny cottage housed parents, a grandfather, and a boisterous brood. Mum and Dad worked dawn till dusk, leaving Lydia and Grandad to manage the house.
When she told little Emily about those days, the girl couldn’t grasp it.
“Nana, what did you play with if you had no toys?”
“Whatever we found, love… pebbles, sticks, scraps of cloth.”
She didn’t explain further—some things were too heavy for a child’s heart.
Lydia’s father was a carpenter—skilled hands, always in demand. He earned well, but evenings meant a bottle on the table. Cheerful, never cruel, though Mum would grumble.
They never had a Christmas tree at home. The first decorated one she ever saw was at school—magical, glowing with joy.
Dad died when she was nine. Two months later, Grandad followed. Mum was left alone with six children. Neighbours helped with the funeral, but survival grew desperate.
“Mum… how will we manage?” Lydia had whispered.
“Don’t know, love. But we must.”
Childhood ended. Lydia became a second mother—cooking, cleaning, tending the little ones. Dreams of friends and games faded. Summers were easier: the garden and chores, backbreaking but familiar.
At ten, she fell from the barn loft, reaching for hay. Her arm never healed right. Doctors did what they could, but her fingers stayed stiff. Even simple tasks grew difficult, though she pushed through school.
After eighth year, she went to college—finally, happiness. Friends, respect, praise for her needlework.
“Lydia, what a talent! Look how neat her stitches are!”
She even travelled abroad with the top students, bringing back gifts—clothes she’d sewn for her siblings, rarely for herself.
In her second year, she fell for Paul—kind, merry, attentive. They courted; she dreamed of marriage. But Mum was harsh.
“Who’d want you with that arm? Loneliness is your lot.”
The words cut deep. Paul drifted away. After college, she found work, but cuts sent her back to Hillside.
Then *he* arrived—Peter. Tall, handsome, hardworking. Built his house next door. And noticed *her*…
This time, it was real. He didn’t care she was older, didn’t flinch at her scars or clumsy hand. He simply loved her.
Their son grew up kind and bright. Now Emily lights up their days.
That evening, as the stew cooled, Lydia spotted him through the window. Peter strode in, weary but grinning.
“There we are, love! Planting’s done. Just need a proper rest now.”
She straightened his collar, hugged him. And he looked at her—just as he had years ago. With love.
