I’d already packed a bag in my mind, ready to flee with my child from my husband and his parents in this village. No, I won’t devote my life to their goats, cows, and endless vegetable patches. They seem to think that marrying Oliver signed me up as unpaid labour on their farm. 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.
When I first arrived after the wedding, things didn’t seem so bad. Oliver was attentive, and his parents, Margaret and her husband, seemed kind. The village was picturesque—rolling green fields, fresh air, peaceful. I even thought I could adjust. But reality set in quickly. A week after moving in, Margaret handed me a pail 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 carried anything heavier than a laptop, was supposed to master goat milking in an evening. That was my first warning.
Oliver, it turned out, had no intention of defending me. “Mum’s right—country life means hard work,” he said when I tried to protest. And so began my new routine: up at dawn, feeding animals, weeding, cleaning, cooking for the whole family. I felt like a servant, not a wife. If I dared ask for a day off, Margaret would roll her eyes and launch into her lectures: “In my day, women worked sunup to sundown without complaint!” Oliver just stayed silent, as if it had nothing to do with him.
My son, just three years old, became my only comfort. Watching him play, I knew I couldn’t let him grow up here, where his future was either farm work or moving to the city as an outsider. I wanted him in a good nursery, learning, travelling, seeing the world. But here? There wasn’t even decent internet to download cartoons for him. When I mentioned enrolling him in an art class in the nearest town, Margaret scoffed: “What’s the point? Better he learns to milk a cow—that’s useful!”
I tried talking to Oliver, explaining how suffocated I felt, how this wasn’t what I’d dreamed of. He just shrugged. “Everyone lives like this, Emily. What more do you want?” Then I found out Margaret was already planning to expand the barn and buy another cow—with all the work falling on me. That was the final straw.
I’d been secretly saving money—not much, but enough for a train ticket to the city. A friend there promised help with a flat and a job. I imagined us boarding that train, leaving behind the goats, cows, and Margaret’s endless nagging. I dreamed of a tiny flat where we could have our own peace, where I could work and my son could grow up properly. I wanted to feel human again, not just a workhorse.
Of course, I’m scared. Will I find work? Will the money last? But one thing’s certain: I can’t stay. Every time I see my son playing in the yard, I think, *He deserves better.* So do I. I won’t let him watch his mother break under the weight of others’ expectations.
Margaret once said I was “too city” to ever belong here. She’s right. I don’t *want* to belong. I want to be myself—Emily, who dreamed of a career, adventures, a happy family. And I’ll do whatever it takes to reclaim that life, even if it means packing a bag and leaving with my son, far from cows and demands.
