When Laura sold her flat in the city and moved to the countryside, buying a small cottage, none of the locals understood why she’d do such a thing. But over time, she became one of them. They started calling her affectionately—Laurie. A ginger cat named Oliver took up residence in her home, at first eyeing the village with suspicion, as if he couldn’t believe he’d never see a city balcony again. But soon, he settled in—on the porch, in the garden, even among the vegetable patches.
Her neighbour across the lane, Margaret, welcomed Laura like family. She helped with the garden, brought seedlings, and shared homemade chutneys. The two women became the closest of friends: long evenings over tea and stories, swapping recipes, knitting to old folk songs. Life flowed quietly and warmly.
Then everything changed when Laura’s son called one day.
“Mum, Emma’s pregnant. Lucy and I are moving to France for a couple of years—contract work. Emma will be on her own. We really need you… Come back to the city.”
Laura froze. Her granddaughter—pregnant? They wanted her to return to the very flat she’d left behind to finally live for herself? She tried to refuse.
“Love, what help would I be? My blood pressure’s up, I’m past sixty now…”
“Mum, you’d be in your own place. Emma just needs support. We’re not forcing you… Just think about it.”
Laura did. She went to the city. And returned utterly drained. Her granddaughter *was* married, expecting a baby. The flat was a mess. Exhausted, Laura called an ambulance—her blood pressure had spiked. In that moment, she knew: she couldn’t keep up with that life anymore. It wasn’t for her.
Margaret understood immediately. When Laura returned to the village the next day to collect her things, saying she’d sold the cottage and was leaving for good, Margaret’s eyes blazed.
“You’re not going anywhere, do you hear me?” she whispered, pulling Laura into a fierce hug.
“Don’t be ridiculous—” Laura flustered.
Margaret rushed to the taxi, pressed notes into the driver’s hand, muttered something. The cab turned and left, dust swirling in its wake.
“Maggie, what are you *doing*? They’re expecting me!” Laura gasped.
“Listen. I’m not family, but in fifteen years, I’ve become closer to you than any of them. Where were they when you were settling in here? Planting potatoes, weeding beds? Now it’s convenient for them to have you cooking and babysitting?”
“But they’re *mine*…” Laura murmured.
“And *you*—whose are you? Do you really want to spend your last years as a maid to a young family? You have a right to happiness. Even in retirement. And doctors? Ours here are just fine. Visit the city if you must.”
Laura was silent a long while. Then, softly: “My home’s not mine anymore. The papers are signed.”
“So what? My garden’s not foreign to you. Stay with me. We’ll figure it out.”
And Laura stayed. Her son and daughter-in-law left. Emma had a baby boy. Everything turned out fine. Laura visited them; they came to the village, staying with her at Margaret’s. Then the unexpected happened: the family who’d bought her cottage moved abroad and asked Laura to house-sit.
A new chapter began. Autumns at Margaret’s. Springs in her old home. When Emma’s son grew older, Laura visited the city more often.
One summer, Emma arrived with papers in hand.
“Gran, here. It’s yours again. We bought it back.”
“*What?*” Laura trembled.
“The Johnsons left. We struck a deal. It’s in my name, but it’s *yours*. Because you’re everything to me.”
Tears streaked Laura’s cheeks. Margaret stood nearby, voice steady:
“I knew she was planning this. No hard feelings. It’s right.”
Emma hugged her.
“We wanted it to be a surprise. And guess what? You’ll have a great-granddaughter soon. So you’ll need your garden back—berries, flowers, the apple tree arbour.”
“Then let’s move your things,” Laura laughed through tears. “Today’s a proper celebration.”
And as little Henry splashed with his watering can among the blooms, he had no doubt: happiness is having everyone close. And Gran’s home—her life—was hers once more.
