The House Where Love Remained
Victor had moved to the neighbouring village and decided at once to build a home. The old cottage left by his second cousin became his temporary refuge. He worked tirelessly—fixing the porch, mending the roof—until one day, he spotted a slender woman walking down the dusty lane from the bus stop, a bag in hand. Eleanor. She looked so refined, tidy, with perfect posture.
“A wife like that would be something,” he thought.
Days later, he met her outside the village shop. He simply walked up and said, “I’m Victor. I know you’re Eleanor. Fancy getting acquainted?”
Eleanor flushed. A man like him, young and strong, taking an interest in her—a woman who’d seen her share of life. But Victor was persistent, kind. They began courting, and within a year, the unexpected happened—he asked her to marry him, slipping a ring on her finger. A real one, gold with a gemstone.
She could scarcely believe her fortune. At fifty-eight, with Victor three years her junior, she’d thought such joy was past her. They lived alone; her son had long since moved to another county—studied there, married, settled. Her granddaughter was five now. Visits were rare, but Eleanor waited eagerly for every call, every photograph.
That evening, she sat by the window. The stew had gone cold, but unease gnawed at her. Victor had left at dawn for the fields—sowing season. He’d promised they’d finish today, yet he still wasn’t home.
Her mind wandered back to childhood. The eldest of six, crammed into a tiny house with her parents and aging grandmother. Chores piled high, pennies stretched thin. No toys. Not even a Christmas tree—she’d seen one for the first time at school, where she’d also first known joy—glittering baubles, carols, children’s laughter.
Then, like thunder: her father was gone. Two months later, her grandmother too. Her mother, alone with six children. Eleanor was in year three. Her childhood ended there. She became the substitute grandmother—cooking, cleaning, minding the little ones. Her hand never quite healed after falling from the barn, fingers stiff, but she carried on.
After secondary school, she enrolled in college. For the first time, she felt happy—friends among the girls, praise from the teachers, the thrill of learning. She became a seamstress, working deftly with one good hand. They even sent her abroad once—the top ten students, and she among them.
But her mother crushed her dream of marrying Paul, a kind lad from college. “What do you want with that? Loneliness is your lot,” she’d said. And perhaps those words broke something in her.
When the factory shut, she returned to the village. And there, she saw Victor.
Now they were together, years later. They’d built a home, raised a son. And now—she waited, listening for the gate.
Then she saw him—walking up the path! Victor, weary but smiling.
“Luv, it’s done. Sowing’s finished. Tomorrow, we rest at last…”
In those words lay such warmth that all the old pains, betrayals, losses melted away. She knew—at last, her life was her own. And in it, love.
