HE CAME… BECAUSE HE LOVED
Peter moved to the village of Hillbrook from the neighbouring county. At first, he stayed in a small, run-down cottage inherited from a distant relative—just temporarily while he built his own home. One evening, as he hammered the last boards of the veranda, he spotted her—a slender, elegant woman, unmistakably from the city, walking from the bus stop. Lydia. That was his neighbour’s name.
“She’s lovely… and what grace,” he thought. “A proper woman.”
A few days later, he ran into her outside the village shop. He didn’t overcomplicate things.
“You’re Lydia—I asked the neighbours. I’m Peter. Fancy getting acquainted?”
She blushed, but inside, she glowed. A man like him, noticing her! Peter didn’t give up, and soon they were courting. A year later, he handed her a little box with a ring inside.
…Years passed. Lydia is now fifty-eight, Peter three years younger. They live together in a cosy home with a newly built veranda. Their son, grown and settled, moved away with his own family. Their pride and joy is their five-year-old granddaughter, Emily, their only grandchild.
That evening, Lydia waited for Peter to return from work. He’d been out in the fields—spring planting was nearly done. She’d made him some hearty stew, set the table, and paused by the window.
“He’s late today… Said they’d finish early.”
Gazing outside, her mind drifted to childhood. Hers had been hard. The eldest of six in a cramped, noisy cottage—parents, their father’s mother, and all those children. Her parents worked dawn till dusk; Lydia and Granny kept the home running.
When she told Emily about it, the little girl couldn’t understand.
“Grandma, what did you play with if you had no toys?”
“Whatever we could find, love… pebbles, sticks, bits of cloth.”
She didn’t say more. Some things were too heavy for a child.
Lydia’s father had been a carpenter—skilled, often hired. He earned decently, but a bottle always waited on the table come evening. Cheery when he drank, her mother would scold, but he never raised a hand. If anything, he was tender.
They never had Christmas trees at home. The first decorated one Lydia ever saw was at school. It felt magical.
When her father died, she was only nine. Granny followed two months later. Her mother, alone with six children. Neighbours helped with the funerals, but life turned bleak.
“Mum, what do we do now?” she’d whispered.
“Don’t know, love… but we’ll manage. We’ve no choice.”
Childhood ended. Lydia became a second mother—cooking, cleaning, feeding the little ones. Dreams of friends and playtime vanished. Summers were easier: gardens and chores, hard but familiar.
At ten, she fell from the barn, reaching for hay. Her arm never healed right. Doctors tried, but her fingers stayed stiff. School was a struggle, but she pushed through.
After secondary school, she went to college. There, at last, she felt happy. Friends, respect, praise for her needlework—especially sewing.
“Lydia, brilliant! Look how neat her stitches are!”
She even travelled abroad with the top students. On breaks, she brought home gifts—clothes she’d sewn for her siblings. Rarely kept anything for herself.
In her second year, she fell for Paul. Kind, cheerful, attentive. They courted; she dreamed of marriage. But her mother was harsh.
“Who’d want you, with that arm? Loneliness is your lot.”
The words cut deep. Slowly, she and Paul drifted apart. After college, she found work, but layoffs sent her back to the village.
Then Peter appeared. Tall, handsome, hardworking. Built his home, settled nearby. And noticed her…
And so it began—this time, for good. He didn’t care about the age gap. Her scars, her stiff fingers—none of it scared him. He just loved her.
Their son grew up kind and clever. Now little Emily brings them joy.
That evening, as the stew cooled, she saw him through the window. Peter walked up, weary but smiling.
“Well, love, done! Planting’s finished. Just need a rest,” he said, stepping inside.
She adjusted his collar, hugged him. And he looked at her, just as he had years ago. With love.
Funny, isn’t it? Life’s hardships mean nothing when someone chooses to see past them. Love isn’t about perfection—it’s about showing up, scars and all.
