My mind is already made up—tonight, I’m packing a bag with the bare essentials and leaving this village with my son, escaping my husband and his parents. No, I won’t spend my life tending to their goats, cows, and endless vegetable patches. They seem to think that marrying Oliver bound me to unpaid labour on their farm. But I refuse. This isn’t the life I chose, and I won’t let my boy grow up in this backwater, where the only entertainment is debating how much milk Betsy the cow gave today.
When I first moved here after the wedding, things didn’t seem so bad. Oliver was attentive; his parents, Margaret and George, appeared kind. The village looked picturesque—rolling green fields, fresh air, peace. I even thought I might adjust. But reality set in quickly. A week after arriving, Margaret handed me a bucket and sent me to milk the goats. “You’re one of us now, Emily,” she said with a smile that still sends shivers down my spine. Me, a city girl who’d never lifted anything heavier than a laptop, expected to master goat-milking in an evening. That was my first warning.
Oliver, it turned out, had no intention of standing up for me. “Mum’s right—everyone works in the countryside,” he said when I protested. And so began my new routine: up at dawn, feeding livestock, weeding, scrubbing their house, cooking for the whole family. I wasn’t a wife; I was a servant. If I dared ask for a break, Margaret would roll her eyes. “In my day, women worked sunup to sundown without a word!” Oliver stayed silent, as if it weren’t his problem.
My three-year-old son is my only solace. Watching him, I know I can’t let him grow up here, where his future is either farm labour or becoming an outsider in some city. I want nursery school, education, adventures—proper chances. Here? There’s not even decent internet 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—that’s useful!”
I’ve tried talking to Oliver. Told him I’m suffocating, that this isn’t what I wanted. He just shrugs. “This is how it is, Emily. What more do you want?” Then I overheard Margaret planning to expand the barn for another cow—meaning more work for me. That was the final straw.
I’ve been stashing money away—not much, but enough for train fare to London. A friend there promised help with a job and a flat. I imagine us boarding that train, leaving behind goats, cows, and Margaret’s lectures. Dream of a tiny flat where it’s just us, where I can work and my son can grow up properly. I want to feel human again, not like some workhorse.
Of course, I’m scared. Will I find work? Will the money last? But staying isn’t an option. Every time I see my boy playing in the yard, I think: he deserves better. So do I. I won’t let him watch his mother shrink under someone else’s expectations.
Margaret says I’m “too city” to ever belong here. She’s right. I don’t want to belong here. I want to be Emily—the woman who dreamed of a career, travel, a happy family. And I’ll do whatever it takes to claw that back. Even if it means grabbing a bag and fleeing with my child to a place where no one will force us to milk cows.
