The House Where Love Stayed
Victor moved to the neighbouring village and decided at once to build his own home. The old cottage left by his great-aunt became his temporary shelter. He worked tirelessly—mending the porch, replacing the roof… Then one day, he saw her: a slender woman walking down the dusty lane from the bus stop, a shopping bag in hand. Eleanor. So polished, so poised, with a straight back like a city woman.
“Now that’s the sort of woman to marry,” he thought.
Days later, he found her by the village shop. He simply walked up and said,
“I’m Victor. You must be Eleanor. Fancy a proper introduction?”
Eleanor flushed. A man like him—young, strong—taking an interest in her, a woman who’d seen her share of life’s twists. But Victor was kind, persistent. Soon, they were courting. A year passed, then the unexpected happened—he proposed. A ring, real gold, with a small glittering stone.
She could hardly believe her luck. Fifty-eight years old, and here was Victor, three years younger. They lived quietly, their son long gone—studying, marrying, settling far away in another county. Their granddaughter was five now, visits rare, but Eleanor treasered every call, every photo.
That evening, she sat by the window. The stew grew cold, untouched. A heaviness sat on her chest. Victor had left at dawn—harvest season. Said they’d finish today. Still, he hadn’t returned.
Her mind drifted back. Eldest of six, crammed into a tiny house with her parents and ancient gran. Responsibility early, money always tight. No toys, no Christmas tree—she’d seen her first one at school, the shimmering baubles, the carols, the laughter…
Then, like lightning—her father gone. Two months later, gran followed. Mother alone with six children. Eleanor, just nine, became the second mother: cooking, cleaning, rocking the youngest to sleep. Her hand never quite healed after the barn fall—fingers stiff, clumsy—but she’d never complained.
After secondary school, she went to college. For the first time, she felt happy—friends, teachers’ praise, learning. She mastered tailoring, stitching deftly even with her bad hand. They even sent her abroad once—top ten students, her among them.
But her mother crushed her dreams. “Why marry?” she’d said when Eleanor spoke of Paul, the kind lad from college. “Loneliness is your lot.” Those words had broken something…
When the factory shut, she had no choice but return to the village. And there, she found Victor.
Now they stood together, years behind them. Built a home. Raised their boy. And here she waited, watching the gate.
Then—there he was. Victor, weary but grinning.
“Light of my life, it’s done! Harvest’s finished. Tomorrow, we rest…”
In those words lay such warmth that every old hurt, every betrayal, every loss melted away. She knew—this life, at last, was hers. And in it, love.
