HE CAME… BECAUSE HE LOVES
Peter moved to the village of Hillbrook from a neighbouring county. At first, he stayed in a small, run-down cottage left by a distant relative—temporarily, while he built his own house. One evening, as he nailed the final boards onto the veranda, he spotted her—a slender, elegant woman with a distinctly urban air, walking from the bus stop. Lydia. That was his neighbour’s name.
“Beautiful… and such poise,” he thought. “A real woman.”
A few days later, he ran into her outside the village shop. He didn’t overthink it.
“You’re Lydia, right? I asked the neighbours. I’m Peter. Shall we get to know each other?”
She flushed but glowed inside—a man like him noticing *her*! Peter didn’t let up, and soon they were dating. A year later, he handed her a little box with a ring inside…
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, moved away long ago to another county with his own family. They have a granddaughter now—five-year-old Emily, their only and utterly adored little one.
That evening, Lydia waited for Peter to return from work. He’d been out in the fields—spring planting was almost done. She’d made a pot of stew, set the table, and drifted into thought by the window.
“He’s late today… Said they’d finish early.”
As she sat there, memories surfaced. Her childhood had been hard. Born into a large family—six children, her the eldest—their tiny cottage held parents, a paternal grandmother, and a noisy brood. Her parents worked dawn till dusk, leaving Lydia and Gran to manage the house.
When she told Emily about those days, the little girl couldn’t grasp it.
“Gran, what did you play with if there were no toys?”
“Whatever we could find, love… pebbles, sticks, bits of cloth.”
She didn’t elaborate—too soon for her granddaughter to understand.
Lydia’s father was a carpenter—skilled, often hired for work. The pay was decent, but a bottle had to be on the table by evening. He’d come home cheerful, her mother grumbling, but he never raised a hand—if anything, he was gentle.
They never had a Christmas tree at home. The first decorated one Lydia ever saw was at school. It felt truly magical.
Her father died when she was just nine. Two months later, Gran followed. Mum was left alone with six children. Neighbours helped with the funeral, but after that, life became a struggle.
“M-Mum… what do we do now?” Lydia had whispered.
“I don’t know, love… but we’ll manage. We have to.”
Childhood ended. Lydia became a second mother—cooking, cleaning, feeding the little ones. Dreams of friends and games faded. Only summers brought slight relief—gardening, chores—hard, but familiar.
At ten, she fell from the hayloft, reaching for straw. Her arm was badly hurt. Doctors tried, but her fingers never fully recovered. Simple tasks became struggles. School was hard, but she pushed through.
After eighth grade, she was sent to technical college. There, she finally felt happy. Friends, respect, praise for her diligence—especially in sewing.
“Lydia, you’re a star! Look how neat her stitches are!”
She even travelled abroad once as a top student. On breaks, she came home with gifts—clothes she’d sewn for her siblings. Rarely for herself.
In her second year, she fell for Paul. Kind, lively, caring. They dated; she dreamed of marriage. But her mother was sharp.
“Marriage? With that arm, no one’ll want you… Best prepare for a life alone.”
The words cut deep. Slowly, things with Paul fizzled out. After college, she worked, but layoffs sent her back to the village.
Then *he* appeared—Peter. Tall, handsome, hardworking. Built his house, settled nearby. And noticed *her*…
And so it began—properly, this time. He didn’t care about the age gap. Her scars—outside and in—didn’t frighten him. He just loved her.
Their son grew up kind, bright. Now Emily brings them joy.
That evening, as the stew cooled, she saw him through the window. Peter walked in, tired but smiling.
“There we are, love! Planting’s done! Just need a quick rest now,” he said, stepping inside.
She straightened his collar, hugged him. And he looked at her—just as he had years ago. With love.
