Is it ever too late for happiness? No. Only ever just in time…
When Vera moved to a quiet village in Devon, she never imagined it would mark the beginning of a new chapter in her life. The cottage had been left to her by a distant relative—old, with a lopsided porch. But from that very first day, Vera resolved to make it her own, to start afresh. She dreamed of a warm home filled with laughter, the comforting scent of shepherd’s pie, and a peace that held the world at bay.
One afternoon, while finishing repairs on the extension, she spotted a woman walking from the bus stop. Tall, elegant, carrying herself with a distinctly refined air. “Now there’s a woman,” Vera thought. It was Olivia, her neighbour.
Later, by chance, they met at the village shop.
“I’ve heard you’re Vera? I’m Olivia,” she said, offering her hand.
And so their friendship began. Olivia charmed Vera effortlessly—clever, kind, steady. First, they spoke as neighbours do, then more and more, until one day Vera admitted to herself: she was in love.
Olivia was three years older. At the time, she was fifty-eight. Her life hadn’t been easy—she’d worked hard, raised her son alone after things fell apart with the boy’s father. The son had grown, gone off to university, married, and now lived with his family in another county. His little girl was already five, but they visited so rarely…
Olivia often sat by the window, lost in memories of her childhood. Hers had been a large family—six children, parents, and a grandmother. The house was cramped, money scarce, toys nonexistent. Her grandmother cooked, cleaned, and cared for the little ones while her parents toiled in the fields.
Her father had been a carpenter, bringing home wages—and sometimes drink. Her mother quarrelled with him, but he never raised a hand to the children. When Vera was in year three, her father died suddenly. Soon after, her grandmother passed too. Her mother was left alone with six children.
From that day, Vera’s childhood ended. She became a second mother—crouching over the stove, scrubbing floors, forgetting friends and play. Once, at school, she fell from a shed and injured her arm. The doctors never fully fixed it. After that, her left hand never worked quite right. Housework became a struggle, but she never complained.
At boarding school, where Vera went after turning fourteen, she felt like a different person. For the first time, she was praised. She made friends, felt wanted. Most of all, she loved sewing. Though she worked with one good hand, her stitches were neat, her creations beautiful. Teachers marveled; classmates admired her. Twice a year, she returned home, bringing hand-sewn gifts for her family.
In her second year, she fell for Andrew. He was kind, full of laughter. Vera pictured marrying him… but when she told her mother, the reply was cold:
“What future do you have? That arm of yours. You’ll end up alone.”
The words cut deep. Slowly, Andrew drifted away. After finishing school, Vera found work, but the company soon folded. She had no choice but to return to the village. And that was when her real life began.
Her neighbour turned out to be John—a widower who had moved from another village. Tall, sturdy, with gentle eyes. He courted Vera patiently, never mentioning her arm, never looking at her with pity.
A year later, he asked her to marry him. She wept with joy—unable to believe someone could love her, just as she was.
Years passed. They built a cosy home, raised a son, weathered storms. Now, Vera often makes shepherd’s pie in the evenings, waiting for John to come in from the fields.
That night, he pushed open the gate, weary but smiling.
“Done with the planting. Now we can live for ourselves.”
She only adjusted the towel on the stove and murmured,
“I’ve always lived for you.”
