The House Where Love Remained
Victor moved to a nearby village and decided at once to build his own home. The old cottage left by his second aunt became his temporary shelter. He worked tirelessly—fixing the porch, mending the roof… Then one day, he saw her—a slender woman walking down the dusty lane from the bus stop, carrying a bag. Eleanor. So refined, neat, with perfect posture.
*That’s the kind of woman I’d marry,* crossed his mind.
A few days later, he saw her again near the village shop. He simply walked up and said,
“I’m Victor. I know you’re Eleanor. Fancy getting acquainted?”
Eleanor blushed. A man like him—young, strong—interested in her, a woman who’d seen her share of life. But Victor was persistent, kind. And so they began to meet. A year later, the unexpected happened—he proposed, slipping a real gold ring with a tiny gem onto her finger.
Eleanor couldn’t believe her fortune. She was fifty-eight, and Victor three years younger. They lived quietly together; her son had long moved to another county for studies, married, and stayed there. Her granddaughter was five, visits were rare, but Eleanor cherished every call, every photograph.
That evening, she sat by the window. Her bowl of stew had gone cold, unease settling in her chest. Victor had left at dawn for the fields—sowing season. He’d promised they’d finish by sundown. Yet he still wasn’t home.
She remembered her childhood. Eldest of six, crammed in a tiny house with her parents and ageing grandmother. The weight of chores on her shoulders, pennies stretched thin. No toys. Not even a Christmas tree—she’d seen one for the first time at school, where she’d also felt her first joy—glittering baubles, carols, children’s laughter.
Then, like thunder—her father was gone. Two months later, her grandmother. Her mother, alone with six children. Eleanor was in Year Three. Her childhood ended that day. She took her grandmother’s place—cooking, cleaning, tending the little ones. Her hand never healed right after a fall from the barn loft, the fingers stiff, but she never complained.
After Year Eight, she went to trade school. For the first time, she was happy—friends among the girls, praise from teachers, learning. She became a skilled seamstress, working mostly with one good hand. She even travelled abroad once—ten top students, and she was among them.
But her mother crushed her dream of marrying Paul, a kind lad from school. “*Why bother? Loneliness is your lot.*” Those words, perhaps, broke something in her…
When the factory shut down, she returned to the village. And there, she met Victor.
Now, they were together. Years had passed. They’d built a home. Raised a son. And now—she waited, listening for the creak of the gate.
There he was! Victor, weary but smiling.
“Love, it’s done. Sowing’s finished. Tomorrow we rest at last…”
In those words was so much warmth, all the old pains, betrayals, losses faded. She knew—finally, her life was truly hers. And in it, there was love.
