HE CAME… BECAUSE HE LOVED
Peter moved to the village of Hillcrest from a neighbouring district. At first, he stayed in a run-down cottage left to him by a distant relative—just until his own house was built. One evening, as he hammered the last boards of the veranda, he spotted her—a slender, tidy woman with a city air about her, walking from the bus stop. Lydia. That was his neighbour’s name.
“Stunning… And such poise,” he thought. “A proper woman.”
A couple of 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. Fancy meeting properly?”
She flushed but glowed inside—a man like him, noticing her! Peter didn’t let up, and soon they were seeing each other. A year later, he slid a little box with a ring across the table…
Years passed. Now Lydia is fifty-eight, Peter three years younger. They live together in a warm house with a new veranda. Their son is grown, moved to another county years ago with his own family. Their granddaughter, five-year-old 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 stew, set the table, and stood by the window, lost in thought.
“He’s late today… Said they’d finish up early.”
As she sat by the window, memories rushed in. Her childhood had been tough. Born into a large family—six children, her the eldest—they crammed into a tiny house with her parents, her father’s mother, and all those noisy kids. Her parents worked dawn till dusk, leaving Lydia and her grandmother to manage everything.
When she told little Emily about it, the girl didn’t understand.
“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 grasp it all.
Lydia’s father had been a carpenter—skilled hands, always in demand. He earned decently, but evenings meant a bottle on the table. He’d come home cheerful, her mother grumbling, but he never raised a hand to them. If anything, he was gentle.
They never had Christmas trees at home. The first decorated tree Lydia ever saw was at school. It felt truly magical.
When her father died, Lydia was just nine. Two months later, her grandmother was gone, too. Her mother was left alone with six children. Neighbours helped with the funeral, but life became unthinkably hard.
“Mum, what do we do now?” Lydia 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 faded. Summers were slightly easier: the garden, the chores—hard, but familiar.
When she was ten, she fell from the barn reaching for hay and badly injured her arm. Doctors tried to save its mobility, but her fingers never worked the same. Simple tasks became struggles. School was hard, but she pushed through.
After eighth grade, she was sent to a technical college. There, for the first time, she felt happy. Friends, respect, praise—especially for her sewing.
“Lydia, brilliant! Look how neat her stitches are!”
She even travelled abroad with the top students. Holidays meant coming home with gifts—clothes she’d sewn for her siblings. Rarely for herself, always for them.
In her second year, she fell for Paul. Kind, funny, caring. They dated, and she dreamed of marriage. But her mother was blunt.
“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 a few years later, redundancies sent her back to the village.
Then he appeared—Peter. Tall, handsome, hardworking. Built a house, moved in next door. And noticed Lydia…
And then it all began—properly this time. He didn’t care about the age gap. He wasn’t put off by her scars, her damaged hand. He just loved her.
Their son grew up kind and clever. Now, little Emily brings them joy.
That evening, as the stew cooled, Lydia saw him through the window. Peter walked in, weary but smiling.
“All done, love! Planting’s finished. Just need a quick rest,” he said, stepping inside.
She adjusted his collar, hugged him. And he looked at her—just like he had all those years ago. With love.
