I sat in my little cold cottage, the air thick with damp and a lingering musty smell. No one had tidied up in ages, yet everything felt familiar; I am the one who runs this place, even if my strength is spent on worry and I cant see where to begin. My heart tightens with lingering resentment, the tears have already run dry after a day of sobbing. I tell myself the old walls will heal me, that in time my spirit will mended.
Bundled in a coat and a warm hat, my hands and feet still numb, I rested my head on the kitchen table and let the memories flood back. The dearest thing I have is my daughter, Ethel. Shes been frail since birth, and my late husband would mutter, What a burden, childwhy cant you sleep through the night, why do you need so many medicines? Better to have a healthy baby! I struggled to bring her to term; at fortytwo I finally gave birth, long after Id stopped hoping for any joy. I lost two children in early pregnancies, and after that I stopped believing in a happy womans life.
Soon my husband left for another village, taking up with a new wife who gave him a son. He never wanted to hear about my sick daughter again. Ethel grew stronger each year, becoming more beautiful, and I hardly noticed the girl turning into a woman. The weight of the farm fell on my shoulders: I worked hard in the collective fields, ran the household alone, and Ethel helped, but life in a rural setting is hard without a man. My motherinlaw eventually moved in when I could no longer manage alone. A widower knocked on my door, hoping to marry me, but I refused; I felt ashamed in front of Ethel. How could I bring a stranger into our home? I was already married in my heart to my daughter, and I needed to live for Ethels sake. Besides, my motherinlaw could barely rise from bed; she was a heavy burden, constantly asking for a drink or to be turned over.
Ethel completed her education, met a good man, and married for love. Two years after the wedding, our granddaughter Lily was born. Ethel didnt want to stay at home, and the mortgage on our house still needed payments. She begged me:
Mother, please come live with us. It would be brighter for you, and you could help. Grandmother has passed, youre alone.
No, Ethel, I replied, I have a cow, an old cat, a gardenhow can I abandon my home?
Sell the cow; it gives little milk anyway. The neighbour, Mrs. Noreen, will take the cat; shes kind. Well be waiting for you in a week!
I could not turn my own blood away; who else would help? The neighbour took the cow and cat, and my soninlaw, his wife, and the grandchildren promised to look after the house. So I moved to Ashford with them. Ethel and her husband worked late, and I could walk with Lily, feed her, even manage to cook dinner.
Lily looks just like her mother; the old woman in me never lost hope. We spent days and nights together, and luckily the little girl rarely fell ill. When Lily turned four, Ethel enrolled her in nursery, believing she needed to mingle with peers.
That same time, the relationship with my daughter soured. My soninlaw was constantly dissatisfied, and Ethel argued that she and her husband fought often because of me. Grandmother spoilt Lily, and the child grew disobedient. Lily went to nursery crying, loving her grandmother more than her own mother.
I felt detached, unable to understand what was wrong, but I never imagined hearing such words from my own child:
Youre no longer needed, Mother. Go back home. Lilys in nursery, the mortgage is paid, the twobed flat is cramped, and youll be better off there.
I wanted to die on the spot. I never thought it could come to this, and how could a daughter say that to her mother? I packed a few possessions quickly, caught the bus, and tried not to weep. Lily clung behind me, begging to go for a walk. My soninlaw drove me to the coach station, dropped me off without a word, without even a goodbye. I never left the kitchen, though I love my daughter; my heart knows this pain, and I think I must have been weeping silently, not wanting her to see me broken.
I ended up back at my old house. Rain began to fall, making the chill even deeper. As if in a dream, I heard a harsh voice and curses. My neighbour, Mrs. Parker, burst in.
Oh, Margaret! I thought someone was trying to loot your place. Hello! Why are you sitting in the dark? Come, lets get you up. My niece Nadine is making pancakes; sit, have a chat. Its been ages since we met.
She practically dragged me by the arm, spilling stories:
My grandchildren are already at school, doing well, no mischief. Your cow gave us a heifer this year; were thinking of keeping it on the farm. You should see how beautiful she isdont sell her, you could keep her for yourself.
The children greeted me like family, the cat was brought in, purring and recognizing its owner. Mousie, I whispered, and she began to purr.
Joy rose in me, tears of happiness, for I was not alone. They told me about village life, about a big, friendly family, and everyone laughed. No one asked why I had returned or why I had left without warning.
After dinner, the neighbours son said:
Our house is big, Aunt Margaret. Stay with us for a while; dont think of leaving. Ill fix the roof, bring firewood, mend the stove, clean the chimney. Ill patch up your home, and if you ever want to move, you can, but maybe youll like it here and stay.
I, a thin old woman, sat smiling, feeling warmth for the first time in years. Human kindness has warmed my soul.
Life in Ashford continues, and I finally feel I have a place to belong.
