HE CAME… BECAUSE HE LOVED
Peter moved to the village of Highfield from the neighboring county. At first, he stayed in a small, run-down cottage left to him by a distant aunt—just temporary, while he built his own place. One evening, as he nailed the last boards onto the veranda, he spotted her—a slender, neat woman with a city air about her, walking from the bus stop. Lydia. That was his neighbor’s name.
“Stunning… And what poise,” he thought. “A proper lady.”
A couple of days later, he ran into her outside the village shop. He didn’t overthink it.
“You’re Lydia, right? I asked around. I’m Peter. Fancy getting to know each other?”
She blushed but glowed inside—a man like him noticing her! Peter didn’t let up, and soon they were courting. A year later, he handed her a little box with a ring inside…
Years passed. Now Lydia was fifty-eight, Peter three years younger. They lived together in a warm house with a new veranda. Their son had long since grown up and moved away, raising his own family in another part of the country. Their pride and joy was their five-year-old granddaughter, Emily—their one and only.
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 a pot of beef stew, set the table, then lingered by the window, lost in thought.
“Peter’s running late… He said they’d finish up today.”
As she sat by the window, memories washed over her. Her childhood had been hard. Born into a big family—six children, her the eldest—they’d crammed into a tiny house with her parents and her father’s mother. Her parents worked dawn till dusk, while Lydia and her grandmother kept the home running.
When she told little Emily about it, her granddaughter couldn’t understand.
“Gran, what did you play with if you didn’t have toys?”
“Whatever we could find, love… pebbles, sticks, scraps of cloth…”
She didn’t say more—some things were too heavy for a child to grasp.
Lydia’s father had been a carpenter—skilled hands, always in demand. He earned well, but come evening, a bottle had to be on the table. He’d come home merry, her mother would grumble, but he never raised a hand to the kids—just the opposite, really. Affectionate, he was.
They never had Christmas trees at home. The first decorated tree Lydia ever saw was at school. That was when she felt real magic.
Her father died when she was just nine. Two months later, her grandmother followed. Her mother was left alone with six children. Neighbors helped with the funeral, but life became a struggle.
“Mum, how will we manage now?” Lydia had whispered.
“I don’t know, love… But we will. What choice have we?”
Childhood ended there. Lydia became a second mother—cooking, cleaning, looking after the little ones. Dreams of friends, of playtime, faded. Summers were a bit easier: the garden, the chores—hard work, but familiar.
When she was ten, she fell from the barn, reaching for hay. Her arm was badly hurt. Doctors did what they could, but her fingers never worked right again. After that, even simple tasks became a struggle. School was tough, but she pushed through.
After secondary school, she was sent to college. There, at last, she found happiness. Friends, respect, praise for her hard work—especially in sewing.
“Lydia, you’ve a real gift! Look how neat her stitches are!”
She even went abroad once with the top students, bringing home gifts for her siblings—clothes she’d sewn herself. She rarely kept anything for herself.
In her second year, she fell for Paul. Kind, cheerful, thoughtful. They dated, and 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, things with Paul fizzled out. After college, she found work, but a few years later, she was laid off. She had to return to the village.
And then he appeared—Peter. Tall, handsome, hardworking. Built his own house, moved in next door. And noticed her…
And so it began—properly this time. He didn’t care about the age gap. Her scars, her bad hand—none of it mattered. He just loved her.
Their son grew up kind and clever. Now little Emily brought them joy.
That evening, as the stew cooled, Lydia saw him through the window. Peter walked in, weary but smiling.
“Well, love, we’re done! Planting’s finished. Just need a bit of rest now,” he said, stepping inside.
She straightened his collar, hugged him. And he looked at her—just like he had all those years ago. With love.
