The House Where Love Remained
Victor moved to the neighbouring village and decided right away to build a home. The old cottage left by his late aunt became his temporary shelter. He worked tirelessly—fixing the porch, mending the roof—until one day, he spotted a slender woman walking down the dusty road from the bus stop. Charlotte. She was neat, poised, unmistakably elegant.
“Now, there’s a woman I’d marry,” he thought.
Days later, he saw her again near the village shop. He simply walked up and said, “I’m Victor. You’re Charlotte, aren’t you? Fancy a proper introduction?”
Charlotte flushed. A man like him—young, sturdy—showing interest in her, a woman who’d seen her share of life. But Victor was kind, persistent. Soon, they were courting. A year later, to her surprise, he proposed. A proper ring, gold with a diamond—real, not paste.
Charlotte couldn’t believe her luck. At fifty-eight, she’d never expected love, let alone marriage. Victor was three years her junior. Their son had long moved away—studied, married, settled in another county. Their granddaughter was five, visits rare, but Charlotte treasured every call, every photo.
That evening, she sat by the window. Her bowl of stew cooled untouched, worry gnawing at her. Victor had left at dawn for the fields—sowing season. He’d promised they’d finish today. Still, no sign of him.
She thought of her childhood. Eldest of six, crammed in a tiny house with her parents and frail grandmother. No toys, no money. Her first Christmas tree wasn’t until school—glittering baubles, carols, laughter—her first real happiness.
Then, thunderstruck: her father died. Two months later, her grandmother. Her mother, alone with six children. Charlotte was nine. Childhood ended. She cooked, cleaned, minded the little ones. Her hand never healed right after a fall from the barn loft—fingers stiff, but she never complained.
After secondary school, she studied sewing. For the first time, she felt joy—friends, praise from tutors, pride in her craft. She became a seamstress, working deftly with one good hand. Even travelled abroad once, chosen among the top ten students.
But her mother crushed her dream—marrying Paul, a kind lad from school. “Why bother? Loneliness is your lot.” Those words broke something in her.
When the factory closed, she returned to the village. And there, she met Victor.
Now, years later, they’d built a home, raised a son. And tonight, she waited, watching the gate.
Then—there he was. Victor, weary but smiling. “Luv, it’s done. Sowing’s finished. Tomorrow, we rest…”
In those words, warmth melted every old pain, every loss. She knew—finally, her life was hers. And in it—love.
Some joys take time, but when they come, they heal all that was broken.
