When Larissa sold her flat in the city and moved to a small village cottage, none of the locals understood why she’d do such a thing. But in time, she became one of them. They even gave her a fond nickname—Lacey. A ginger tomcat named Oliver settled into her home, wary at first, as if he couldn’t believe he’d never see a city balcony again. Soon enough, though, he made himself at home—on the porch, in the garden, even among the vegetable patches.
Her neighbour across the lane, Margaret, welcomed her like family. She helped with the garden, brought seedlings, and shared jars of homemade chutney. The women became true friends—long evenings over tea, swapping recipes, knitting to the sound of old records, their lives peaceful and warm.
Then everything changed when Lacey’s son called.
“Mum, Amelia’s pregnant. Grace and I are moving to France for a couple of years for work. Amelia will be alone. We need you… Come back to the city.”
Lacey went silent. Her granddaughter—pregnant? They wanted her to return to the very flat she’d left behind, just as she’d finally started living for herself? She hesitated.
“Love, what help will I be? My blood pressure’s dodgy, I’m past sixty…”
“Mum, you’d be in your own place. Amelia just needs support. We’re not forcing you… Just think about it.”
Lacey thought. She went to the city. And returned utterly drained. Amelia had indeed gotten married and was expecting. The flat was a mess. Overwhelmed, Lacey called an ambulance—her blood pressure had spiked. In that moment, she knew: she couldn’t keep up with that life. It wasn’t hers anymore.
Margaret saw it all at once. When Lacey returned the next day to pack her things, saying she’d sold the cottage and was leaving for good, fire lit in Margaret’s eyes.
“I won’t let you go, d’you hear?” she whispered, pulling her friend into a fierce hug. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Margaret, don’t—” Lacey faltered. “Don’t joke like that.”
Margaret dashed to the taxi, pressed notes into the driver’s hand, and muttered something. The cab turned and left, dust swirling behind it.
“What’re you doing?! They’re expecting me!” Lacey gasped.
“Listen. I’m not family, but in fifteen years, I’ve been closer to you than they have. Where were they when you settled here? When you planted potatoes, when you dug your beds? Now it’s handy for them—expecting you to cook and babysit?”
“But they’re my—”
“And who are *you*? Should you spend your last years as a servant to their needs? You’ve a right to happiness. Even in retirement. And doctors? Ours aren’t half bad here. Visit the city if you like—but as a guest.”
Lacey was quiet a long moment. Then, softly: “My cottage isn’t mine anymore. The papers are signed.”
“Doesn’t matter. My garden’s yours too. Stay with me. We’ll figure it out.”
And Lacey stayed. Her son and his wife left. Amelia had a boy. Everything turned out fine. Lacey visited them; they came to the village, staying with her at Margaret’s. Then something unexpected happened—the family who’d bought her cottage moved abroad and asked Lacey to house-sit.
A new chapter began. Autumns with Margaret, springs in her old home. As Amelia’s son grew, Lacey visited the city more.
One summer, Amelia arrived with papers in hand.
“Gran, it’s yours. The cottage. Again. We bought it back.”
“What?!” Lacey trembled. “But—the new owners—”
“Gone. We sorted it. All legal. It’s in my name—but it’s yours. Because you’re everything to me.”
Tears rolled down Lacey’s cheeks. Margaret, voice steady beside her, murmured, “Knew she was planning this. No hard feelings. It’s right.”
Amelia hugged her. “We’ve another surprise… You’ll have a great-granddaughter soon. So—you’ll need your garden again, your berries, your bench under the apple tree.”
“Then let’s fetch my things,” Lacey laughed through tears. “Today’s a proper celebration.”
And as little Noah splashed with his watering can among the flowers, one thing was certain: happiness is having everyone you love close. And Gran having her home—and her life—back again.
