Oh, this is such a lovely story—let me tell you how it’d feel if it were set right here in England.
*”Mum, how can you even think of doing this?” her daughter gasped. “You’ll be all alone out in that village—aren’t you scared?”*
*”People are everywhere,” Elizabeth Freeman replied calmly. “I’ll make friends there, too—don’t you worry. But you’ll always be welcome to visit. No, I won’t be coming back to the city. I’ve been waiting for my pension like it’s a prize. And the cottage is perfect—even got it on instalments. Isn’t that just brilliant?”*
Elizabeth was in high spirits. Not only had she made her dream come true with a little place in the nearest village, but she had another reason to leave. Her daughter, Emma, was already thirty and still hadn’t settled down. So Elizabeth decided to leave the flat to her, hoping it might help her start her own life.
*”Make yourself at home here, love. I’ll pop by when I’m in town for shopping,”* she hugged Emma and climbed onto the bus, speeding off toward her new life.
The village suited Elizabeth right away. She didn’t miss the flat—she’d always spent summers at their old countryside home anyway, now sold off. This place had everything: a shop, a bus route, even a small clinic and a library.
*”Bloody marvellous!”* she’d often sigh, stretching on the doorstep each morning. The neighbours were kind, always offering help, but Liz refused—she wanted to do everything herself.
Emma visited often at first, struggling to adjust to life without her mum. They’d lived side by side for years, and now Emma felt the pressure to start a family, just as Elizabeth had told her.
Spring was warm and damp. *”Perfect for planting,”* remarked her neighbour, old Tom Wilson, a retired farmer in his seventies. *”Wet soil means a good harvest.”*
Elizabeth didn’t just manage her veg patch—she got chickens and ducks, too, since the old coop was still solid. She was always bustling about, feeding the birds, weeding, while her city cat, Baron, trailed behind, eyeing the new flock suspiciously.
*”Don’t you worry, Baron, you’ll get used to it. Look at you, already acting like the lord of the manor.”*
Soon, a scruffy stray mutt named Patch joined her. He’d been wandering the village, begging scraps, shivering through winters. Out of pity, Liz started letting him into the yard, and he never left, gazing adoringly at her each morning as she filled his bowl with porridge and meat scraps.
Patch settled under the porch until Tom built him a proper kennel. The village soon spoke of their new neighbour as kind and capable, smiling whenever they saw her.
Emma, though, felt guilty for a long time. *”How can I ever repay you, Mum?”* she’d ask on weekend visits.
But when Emma met her Daniel, she understood her mother’s sacrifice. They married, and within a year, baby Sophie arrived.
*”This is my repayment,”* Liz laughed, cuddling her granddaughter. *”Our family carries on! You’ll all come summers—I’ll even get a goat, give our girl some proper fresh milk.”*
Years passed, and Elizabeth became a true village woman. Emma and Daniel visited to help in the garden, stock up on preserves, or enjoy the sauna. Still, Emma worried.
*”Aren’t you tired of all this, Mum? You’re not young anymore. Nearing seventy, all alone—we only visit in bits.”*
*”I manage,”* Elizabeth would say. *”If it gets hard, I’ll cut back. But what would I do without them? Stare out the window? This keeps me lively.”*
Even when age brought aches, she held onto her ducks and goat. Only in her eighties did she downsize to just chickens. Patch and Baron had passed by then, but two abandoned cats found their way to her door, as often happens in villages.
*”No more pets, Mum,”* Emma begged. *”I’m worn out from trips here. I’ll be retiring soon myself.”*
Emma’s marriage didn’t last. She and Daniel split after Sophie finished school and left for uni in London. But he helped with tuition, and Emma gave everything for Sophie’s education.
Now, Emma was alone in the flat again, her daughter visiting rarely. Meanwhile, Elizabeth could barely walk. They scaled back the garden, but every time Emma visited, she pleaded:
*”Won’t you come back to town, Mum? The hospital’s close, your room’s waiting—and I won’t have to keep worrying over you.”*
But Elizabeth refused. *”Why crowd you with my ailments, love? You might still find someone—you’re not old yet. But my time’s nearly up, and I’m content. The best years of my life were here.”*
Emma had no choice but to accept it.
At fifty-four, she promised, *”Just wait—I’ll retire soon and move here. We’ll fix up the house, tend the garden.”*
But Elizabeth didn’t live to see it. Neighbours called—she’d passed peacefully in her sleep.
*”Like an angel,”* they said. *”A gentle soul taken gently.”*
After the funeral, Emma planned to sell. The neighbours sighed and looked for buyers. But forty days later, she returned for a week to pack up. She had to rehome the cats, whom neighbours had been feeding.
Approaching the cottage, her heart ached—twenty-five happy years her mother had lived here. Years she’d poured into the soil, the garden, fixing the roof, the fence…
The cats, Misty and Luna, mewled and rubbed her legs.
*”Hang on, loves—I’ve brought your favourite,”* she murmured, filling their bowls. *”Mum adored you. And now you’ve got nobody…”*
Inside, she aired the place, tidied, lit the stove. Soon, the kitchen smelled of soup and fried potatoes, the wall clock ticking back to life.
*”There,”* Emma smiled. *”Just like when she was here.”*
Her heart swelled—warm and sorrowful—as she wept before her mother’s portrait.
Footsteps echoed in the hall. It was Alex, old Tom’s son, retired and living in his father’s house next door.
*”Welcome back, love. What’s the plan? Blimey, it’s cosy—smells like dinner.”*
*”Join me, Alex. I can’t eat alone—not after all those years with Mum.”*
*”Don’t mind if I do,”* he said, washing up at the sink.
As Emma served soup and potatoes, Alex mused, *”Funny how we’re alike—both lost our parents, both ended up here. Maybe we’re meant to stay, eh? Where they were happiest.”*
Emma nodded. *”True. But it’s not easy, changing everything.”*
*”Easier than rotting in some flat, glued to the telly. Here, you’ve got the woods, the river, the garden… And your furry lot.”*
They glanced at the cats, sprawled blissfully by the stove.
Emma smiled. *”I’m not leaving, Alex. Just decided—I’m staying.”*
A week later, she returned to town—not to live, but to rent out her flat. First, she hauled her essentials back to the cottage.
*”Look who’s home, Misty, Luna!”* The cats purred like engines.
*”Oi, Emma!”* Alex called from next door. *”Tea’s on—get over here before the spuds go cold! And I’ve warmed your stove a bit…”*
So Emma stayed, surprising Sophie. But when her daughter visited with little Natasha, she was thrilled.
*”I’m so glad you kept Gran’s house! We’ll visit more once Nat’s older. She should grow up breathing this air, just like Gran said: *‘Life’s sweeter in the garden, under a brighter sun.’* Right?”*
*”That’s why I’m here, love,”* Emma said softly. *”Just like Mum, I’ll always be waiting for you.”*
The sun warmed the orchard, branches heavy with apples. Emma propped them up, chuckling.
*”Blimey, what a yield! What’ll we do with all these?”*
*”Eat ‘em, stew ‘em, dry ‘em, pickle ‘em!”* Sophie laughed, ruffling Natasha’s hair.
