I’ve already packed a bag in my mind with the bare essentials, ready to run away from my husband and his parents—away from this tiny village. No, I won’t dedicate my life to their goats, cows, and endless vegetable patches. They seem to think that because I married Oliver, I automatically signed up to be their unpaid farmhand. But I disagree. This isn’t the life I want, and I refuse to let my son grow up in this backwater, where the only entertainment is debating how much milk Daisy 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 John—seemed kind enough. The village had its charm: rolling green fields, fresh air, peace. I even thought I could adjust. But reality set in quickly. A week after arriving, Margaret handed me a bucket and ordered me to milk the goats. “You’re one of us now, Emily—time to pull your weight!” she said with a smile that still makes my skin crawl. Me, a city girl who’d never lifted anything heavier than a laptop, expected to master goat-milking in one evening. That was my first warning.
Oliver, it turned out, had no intention of standing up for me. “Mum’s right—everyone works hard here,” he said when I tried to protest. From then on, my new routine began: up at dawn, feeding animals, weeding, cleaning, cooking for the whole household. I wasn’t a wife; I was a servant. If I dared ask for a day off, Margaret would roll her eyes and launch into her lectures: “In my day, women worked from sunup to sundown without a word of complaint!” Oliver stayed silent, as if it had nothing to do with him.
My three-year-old son is the only bright spot. Watching him play, I know he deserves better than this—a future where his choices are either slaving on the farm or moving to the city as an outsider. I want him in a proper nursery, learning, travelling, seeing the world. Here? There isn’t even decent internet to download cartoons. When I mentioned enrolling him in an art class in the next town over, Margaret scoffed: “What’s the point? Better he learns to milk a cow—now *that’s* useful!”
I’ve tried talking to Oliver, explaining how suffocated I feel, how this isn’t what I dreamed of. He just shrugs. “This is how it is, Emily. What more do you want?” Then I found out Margaret’s already planning to expand the barn and buy another cow—meaning more work for me. That was the final straw.
I’ve been stashing money secretly. Not much, but enough for train tickets to London. A friend there has promised to help with a flat and a job. I picture us boarding that train, leaving this village, the goats, the cows, and Margaret’s nagging behind. I dream of a tiny flat where it’s just us—where I can work, and my boy can grow up properly. I want to feel human again, not just a workhorse.
Of course, I’m scared. Will I find work? Will the money last? But I know one thing: I can’t stay. Every time I see my son playing in the yard, I think—he deserves more. So do I. I won’t let him watch his mother bend until she breaks under the weight of someone else’s expectations.
Margaret once said I’m “too city” to ever belong here. She’s right. I don’t *want* to belong here. I want to be myself—Emily, who once dreamed of a career, of adventures, of a happy family. And I’ll do whatever it takes to reclaim that life. Even if it means packing a bag and disappearing with my son to somewhere nobody will force me to milk a cow.
*Lesson learnt: Sometimes running away isn’t cowardice—it’s the bravest thing you can do.*
