The Pleaded Hearts: Happiness Against All Odds
Anna’s sisters had married young, moving off to different towns, starting families of their own. Their homes buzzed with laughter, while Anna stayed behind in her parents’ house in Willowsedge, alone. As the years passed, her hope of finding love faded like an autumn mist. The villagers had long written her off: “Who’d want someone like her, stuck out in the countryside?” But Anna didn’t give up. She kept house, raised chickens and goats, tended her garden. Every harvest, she packed crates of fresh vegetables for her sisters’ children. Her sourdough bread was legendary—neighbors often asked her to bake, and she never refused.
Anna never complained. She accepted her fate with quiet grace, finding joy in her nieces and nephews who visited each summer. Their laughter filled the house with life, but when they left, the silence felt heavier. Though she clung to hope, deep down, she prepared herself for a solitary old age.
Yet fate had other plans.
One July afternoon, labourers arrived at the neighboring farm to build a shed. Anna had work of her own—the barn roof needed mending, the stovepipe in the washhouse had to be replaced, and a dozen other small jobs had piled up. A woman alone in the village had it tough, though Anna could swing a hammer well enough. One of the workers, Thomas, offered to help. He was divorced, childless, with tired but kind eyes.
At first, they just talked—about life, the village, the loneliness of being on one’s own. Then he started dropping by more often, fixing things around the house while Anna cooked him supper. Friendship bloomed into something deeper. At forty, Anna married him. The wedding was simple, but her eyes shone so brightly that no one could call her plain. Thomas, three years her senior, looked at her as if she were a miracle.
At forty-two, Anna gave birth to Edward. Thomas, then a forty-five-year-old father, showed no weariness—only joy. Three years later came little Eliza. The children were their pleaded-for blessing, their light. Against all the mockery and predictions, they managed with ease. Every little milestone—first steps, first words, clumsy drawings—filled them with delight.
“Tired, love?” Thomas would ask each evening, wrapping his arms around her.
“A bit,” she’d laugh, warmth lighting up her face.
Twenty years slipped by like a single day. Edward grew up, married. Eliza left for university. Anna and Thomas waited for grandchildren. A jack-of-all-trades, Thomas had already built a play set in the yard—swings, a slide, a sandpit. Their home brimmed with warmth, if not wealth. Anna no longer felt unremarkable. How could she, when she was held so tenderly, called “love” in a voice thick with affection?
Yet sometimes, in the quiet of evening, Anna remembered the years of solitude. The cruel whispers from neighbors, the pitying looks, the silent judgment. She had endured it all, but her heart hadn’t hardened. She knew: her happiness wasn’t chance—it was a gift, hard-won through years of waiting.
Anna looked at Thomas, at their home, at the photos of their children, and tears welled up. Not from sorrow, but gratitude. For love, for family, for the life fate had granted her, just when she’d nearly stopped believing.
