24April
I awoke feeling the weight of another solitary year pressing against my chest. The world seems to keep offering the same old proposals, only to have them turned down. It feels better to have a freehanded offer than a gratuitous one that hangs in the air.
Tell me, Poppy, arent you tired of being alone? my mother asked, her voice trembling with the fatigue of too many sleepless nights. A woman ought not to be on her own; she should always be with a man. Otherwise it feels wrong, as if the world wont notice you at all. Loneliness, you know?
Loneliness? What a dreadful word, I chuckled, pushing away the melancholy that threatened to swallow me. Its just a foolish feeling, like a cold snap that passes when you least expect it. Children will come, even if theyre not yet on the horizon.
My mothers eyes flickered with a hint of mischief, but I barely heard her as she kept rambling about how a good husband would be a sturdy oak in a storm, and how I should be grateful for the one who had already walked beside me for ten years, even if his presence was mostly a quiet shadow.
Charlie, my former sweetheart, had vanished a decade ago. Hed been generous, saying hed given me a home once, then disappeared. When I finally learned the truth, I found myself juggling two roomsone for my mothers bed and the other for her catwhile my husband tried to convince me that once is enough and that nothing strange ever truly happens. I kept my composure, but the tension was palpable.
When my husband approached my mother with a gentlemanly courtesy, leaving the cat to the former wife and the two children to their own devices, life scattered in all directions. The son settled in Peterborough, working as a mechanic. My daughter, ever the romantic, married quickly and moved abroad with her husband. I was left alone in a modest twobed flat in the heart of London.
Living alone never unsettled me. I secured a steady job as a clerk, earning enough to be content, and welcomed occasional visits from my children and from Maggie, the neighbours cat. Though my intellect isnt extraordinary, I always managed to keep myself occupied and never fell into dullness. I read, swam, attended yoga, loved traveling, and even dabbled in a bit of freelance work. In short, I was happy with my life.
Until a certain pastor, who kept nudging Maggie to settle down, finally decided to intervene
Listen to me, Poppy, he said, a decent bloke, still single, sixtyone years old, seven years older than you. A spacious house, decent farmland, goats, cows, pigs, and chickensno shortage of food! Milk, eggs, meateverything you need. Hes polished, educated, even reads the books. Give him a chance. He tried to persuade me, but I wasnt convinced.
Maggie, ever the opportunist, introduced me to a new neighboura farmer named Ian. He was tall, muscular, with rough hands and clean nails, a true country man who could talk a mile without ever sounding pretentious. His name sounded distinctly British, dependable, yet oddly foreign to me.
At our second meeting, I caught myself glancing at Ian, noting the way his eyes lingered on the fields beyond his farm. Perhaps a gentle soul was needed to balance my solitary heart. He seemed eager to discuss a partnership, suggesting we could run a small dairy togethermilk, butter, cheeseanything that would keep the farm thriving.
He talked about the need for a wife to help with the chores: milking cows, feeding goats, collecting eggs. Youll manage the house, too, he said, and well have plenty of profit for both of us. He even hinted that a modest income would be enough to support us, especially once we added a small parcel of land for vegetables.
All this made me pause. My little garden in the city was thriving; I had a tidy cottage, a small piece of land where I grew herbs each summer, and a reliable car Id bought for eight pounds a week. What would I gain by moving to his farm, cleaning pigsties, milking cows, and tending to chickens?
I still had to prepare dinner for my husband, order groceries, keep the house spotless, and maintain the modest pension I earned. The prospect of a larger income was tempting, but my life was already comfortable enough. I wondered if I truly needed the chaos of farm life, or if I could simply enjoy my quiet existence.
Later that evening, I called Maggie. Maggie, Im sorry, but Im turning down Ians proposal. I cant imagine a life tied to a farm when Im happy here. I want to stay in my solitude, at least for now.
Maggies eyes widened, but she respected my decision. I thought about how Id spent the last weeks feeling the sting of rejection, the bitterness of an old lovers words, but the promise of a new beginning lingered like a distant fire.
I messaged Ian, explaining that I was no longer interested in meeting. He replied briefly, his tone polite yet clearly disappointed. I felt a pang of guilt, yet also relief. I went to the kitchen, brewed a strong cup of tea, and watched the rain tap against the window, recalling the sound of childrens laughter from years gone by. I thought about visiting my son in Peterborough, perhaps arranging a short trip, and inviting my daughter back for a family dinner soon.
The thought of an idle existence isnt all that bad. My little garden, my modest cottage, and my routine keep me grounded. Ill continue to tend my plants, keep the house tidy, and enjoy the peace that only a solitary life can offer. If the future ever brings another chance at companionship, Ill consider it, but for now Im content to stand on the balcony, watch the clouds drift, and whisper to myself: Its alright, Poppy. Youve made it this far, and youll keep going.
