I’d already packed a bag in my head—just the essentials—to sneak away with my son from my husband and his parents, far from this tiny village. No, I wasn’t about to dedicate my life to their goats, cows, and endless veggie patches. They seemed to think that because I married Oliver, I’d automatically signed up as unpaid labour on their farm. Well, I disagreed. This wasn’t the life I wanted, and I sure didn’t want my boy growing up in this backwater, where the highlight of the week was debating how much milk their prized cow, Buttercup, had produced.
When I first moved here after the wedding, it didn’t seem so bad. Oliver was attentive, his parents—Margaret and her husband—seemed kind enough. The village was quaint: rolling green fields, fresh air, peace and quiet. I even thought I could adjust. But reality hit fast. A week in, Margaret handed me a pail and sent me off to milk the goats. “You’re one of us now, Emily—time to pitch in!” she said with a smile that still gives me chills. Me, a city girl who’d never lifted anything heavier than a laptop, expected to master goat-milking by sundown. That was my first red flag.
Oliver, it turned out, had no intention of standing up for me. “Mum’s right, love. Everyone pulls their weight in the countryside,” he said when I dared complain. And so began my new routine: up at dawn, feeding livestock, weeding rows of veg, scrubbing floors, cooking for the lot of them. I wasn’t a wife—I was hired help without the pay. If I dared ask for a day off, Margaret would roll her eyes and launch into her favourite lecture: “In my day, women worked sunup to sundown without a peep!” Oliver just stayed quiet, as if it had nothing to do with him.
My three-year-old son was my only bright spot. Watching him play, I knew I couldn’t let him grow up here, where his future meant either slaving on the farm or moving to the city as an outsider. I wanted nursery school, books, adventures—proper chances. Here? There wasn’t even decent Wi-Fi to download cartoons. When I mentioned enrolling him in an art class in the nearest town, Margaret scoffed: “What’s the point? Better he learns to milk Buttercup—that’s useful!”
I tried reasoning with Oliver. Told him I was suffocating, that this wasn’t the life I’d imagined. He just shrugged. “This is how it is, Emily. What else d’you want?” Then I found out Margaret was already plotting to expand the barn and buy another cow—with me, naturally, doing the extra work. That was the final straw.
I’d been stashing money away—not much, but enough for train tickets to London. A friend there promised to help with a flat and a job. I pictured us boarding that train, leaving behind the goats, the cows, Margaret’s endless nitpicking. I daydreamed of a tiny flat with just us, where I could work, and my son could grow up somewhere normal. Where I’d feel like a person again, not a workhorse.
Sure, I was terrified. Would I find work? Would the money last? But one thing was clear: I couldn’t stay. Every time I saw my boy playing in the yard, I knew he deserved more. So did I. I refused to let him watch his mother bend until she broke, sacrificing herself for someone else’s expectations.
Margaret recently said I was “too posh” to ever fit in here. Funny thing—she was right. I didn’t want to fit in. I wanted to be myself: Emily, who once dreamed of a career, of travelling, of a happy family. And I’d do whatever it took to reclaim that life—even if it meant grabbing my son and bolting to somewhere nobody would make me milk a cow.
