Eleanor Finch sat in her drafty cottage, the air thick with damp and neglect. No one had tended the place in years, yet every creak and cracked window felt familiar; she was still the mistress of these walls, though her strength had been drained by endless worry, leaving her uncertain where to begin. A lingering hurt squeezed her heart, the tears already gone after a day of silent sobbing. The old walls will heal me, she whispered to herself, hoping time would mend her spirit.
Wrapped in a wool coat and a knitted hat, her hands and feet were numb. She rested her head on the kitchen table and let memories flood back. The most precious thing she owned was her daughter, Poppy. From birth Poppy had been frail, and George, Eleanors husband, would mutter, Youre not fit to be a mother, never sleeping, always on medicinebring us a healthy child instead! Yet she clung to the hope of motherhood, giving birth at fortytwo after a long, painful wait. Two children had been lost in early pregnancy, and she had nearly given up on any joy of being a woman.
Soon after, George left for a neighbouring hamlet, taking a new wife who already had a son. He refused to hear a word about his ailing daughter. Poppy grew year by year, stronger and more beautiful, and Eleanor barely noticed the girl turning into a woman. The weight of the farm fell heavily on her shoulders: she laboured hard in the collective fields, struggled to keep the household afloat, and Poppy helped where she could, but without a man the village was a hard place to survive. Eleanors motherinlaw moved in when living alone became unbearable. A widower proposed to Eleanor, but she turned him downshe felt ashamed to bring a new man into the home when Poppy needed a mother, not a stepfather. The old women in the house were frail; the motherinlaw could hardly rise from bed, constantly asking for a drink or a turn.
Poppy completed her schooling, met a decent man, and married for love. Two years later, their daughter Emily was born. Poppy disliked staying at home; the mortgage on their modest terraced house still needed paying. She pleaded with her mother:
Mother, please come and live with us. It would lift our spirits, and youd have company now that Grandmas gone.
Eleanor answered, I have my cow, my old cat, and the gardenhow could I abandon my home?
Sell the cow, it gives little milk anyway. Let Mrs. Noreen take the cat; shes kind enough. Well be waiting for you in a week! Poppy urged, unable to refuse her mothers need for help.
The neighbor took the cow and the cat; her son, daughterinlaw and grandchildren promised to look after the house. So Eleanor packed what she could and moved to town. Poppy and her husband worked late, leaving Eleanor to stroll with Emily, feed her, and even manage a modest dinner.
Emily took after her grandmotherbright, eager, and rarely ill. When Emily turned four, Poppy enrolled her in a playgroup, believing the child needed socialising. Suddenly Poppys attitude toward her mother soured. Her husband arrived home irritated, and Poppy complained that arguments with her husband were often sparked by Eleanor. The grandparents spoiled Emily, and the little girl began to cling more to her grandmother than to her own mother.
Eleanor felt lost, unable to grasp what had gone wrong, until one bitter evening Poppy snapped:
Enough, Mother. We dont need you any more. Go back home. Emily is in nursery, the mortgage is paid, and the twobed flat is cramped. Youll be better off on your own.
The words hit Eleanor like a blow. She wanted to die on the spot, never having imagined such cruelty from her own child. She gathered the few belongings she owned, hurried onto a bus, and tried not to weep. Emily clutched her coat, begging to take her for a walk.
The soninlaw drove her to the coach station, dropped her off without a word, not even a goodbye. He never lifted a hand to help in the kitchen, though his heart knew the pain. Eleanors tears were silent; she could not let her daughter see her break.
She stood alone on the platform as rain began to fall, the chill seeping into her bones. In the gloom she heard a harsh voice and a string of curses. A neighbour, Mrs. Whitaker, burst through the doorway of her own cottage.
Ellen! Is that you? I thought someone was trying to rob my house. Good heavens, what are you doing in the dark? Come on, get up. Lets have a cuppa. My lad, Nathan, is making pancakes. Its been ages since weve seen each other.
Mrs. Whitaker practically dragged Eleanor inside, spilling stories as she went:
My grandchildren are already at school, doing fine. And your cow gave us a heifer this yearwere thinking of keeping her on the farm. Youll see how gorgeous she is; you cant just sell her, can you? Take her home if you like.
The children greeted Eleanor like a longlost aunt, and the cat, now named Whiskers, was carried in, purring and recognising its former owner at once.
For the first time in weeks, Eleanor felt a tear of joy riseshe was not alone. She listened to tales of village life, of hearty laughter and a closeknit family, and no one asked why she had returned, nor did anyone demand a warning.
After dinner, the neighbours son, Tom, said:
Our house is big enough for you, Aunt Ellen. Stay as long as you likewe wont let you go. Ill fix the roof, bring in firewood, and patch the stove. If you ever want to move back to your own place, youre welcome, but perhaps youll find you like it here.
The thin old woman smiled, feeling warmth spread through her chest, soothed by the simple kindness of strangers.
Life in Ashford had taken a turn she never expected, but for the first time in years, Eleanor Finch felt the faint glow of hope.
