I’ve already packed a bag in my mind with the bare essentials, ready to run away from my husband and his parents with our child—far from this village. No, I won’t spend my life tending their goats, cows, and endless vegetable patches. They seem to think that marrying Oliver meant I 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, it didn’t seem so bad. Oliver was attentive, and his parents, Margaret and her husband, seemed kind enough. The village was picturesque—rolling green fields, clean air, peace and quiet. I even thought I could adjust. But reality hit hard. A week after arriving, Margaret handed me a bucket and sent me to milk the goats. “You’re one of us now, Emily—time to pull your weight!” 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 hard here,” he said when I tried to object. And so began my new life: up at dawn, feeding animals, weeding plots, cleaning the house, cooking for the family. I felt less like a wife and more like hired help. If I dared ask for a day off, Margaret would roll her eyes and launch into her lectures: “In my day, women worked from sunrise to sunset without a word of complaint!” Oliver stayed silent, as though it had nothing to do with him.
My three-year-old son is my only joy. Looking at him, I know I can’t let him grow up here, where his future is either slaving on the farm or moving to the city as an outsider. I want him in a proper nursery, learning, exploring, seeing the world. Here? There isn’t even decent internet to download cartoons for him. When I mentioned enrolling him in an art class in the next town, Margaret scoffed: “What’s the point? Better he learns to milk a cow—that’s useful!”
I’ve tried talking to Oliver. Tried explaining how suffocated I feel, how this isn’t the life I imagined. He just shrugs: “It’s how things are, Emily. What do you expect?” Then recently, I overheard Margaret planning to expand the barn and buy another cow—meaning more work for me. That was the final straw.
I’ve been secretly saving money. Not much, but enough for train tickets to London. A friend there has offered us a place to stay and help finding work. I picture us boarding that train, leaving behind this village, the goats, the cows, and Margaret’s endless criticism. I dream of a tiny flat where it’s just us—where I can work, and my son can grow up somewhere better. I want to feel like a person again, not just a workhorse.
Of course, I’m terrified. Will I find a job? Will we have enough? But one thing’s certain: I can’t stay. Every time I watch my son playing in the yard, I know he deserves more. So do I. I won’t let him see his mother broken under the weight of others’ expectations.
Margaret once said I’m “too city” to ever belong here. Funny—she’s right. I don’t *want* to belong here. I want to be myself: Emily, who dreamed of a career, of travel, of a happy family. And I’ll do whatever it takes to reclaim that life—even if it means loading that bag and leaving with my son, far from anyone who’d force us to milk a cow.
**Lesson learned:** Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is walk away from what’s expected and fight for the life you *actually* want.
