HE CAME… BECAUSE HE LOVED
Peter moved to the village of Oakendale from the neighbouring parish. At first, he stayed in a small, weathered cottage left to him by a distant aunt—temporary lodging while he built his own home. One evening, as he hammered the final boards onto the veranda, he spotted her—a slender, elegant woman with the air of someone from the city, walking from the bus stop. Lydia. That was his neighbour’s name.
“Beautiful… And such fine posture,” he thought. “A proper woman.”
A few days later, he met her outside the village shop. He didn’t bother with pretences.
“You’re Lydia—I asked the neighbours. I’m Peter. Shall we get acquainted?”
She flushed but glowed inside—such a man had taken notice of *her*! Peter didn’t let up, and soon they were courting. A year later, he slipped a little box with a ring into her hand…
…Years passed. Lydia is now fifty-eight, Peter three years younger. They live together in a snug home with its new veranda. Their son, grown and long settled in another county, has a family of his own. They dote on their granddaughter—five-year-old Lily, their only and most cherished.
That evening, Lydia waited for Peter to return from work. He’d been out in the fields—spring planting was nearly done. She’d made a hearty stew, set the table, then drifted into thought by the window.
“He’s late today… Said they’d finish early.”
As she sat there, memories took her. Her childhood had been hard. Born into a large family—six children, her the eldest—their tiny cottage housed not just parents and brood, but Grandfather too, who’d moved in after Grandmother passed. Her parents worked from dawn till dusk, leaving Lydia and Grandfather to manage the home.
When she told little Lily of those days, the child couldn’t grasp it.
“Gran, what did you play with if you had no toys?”
“Whatever we could find, dear… pebbles, sticks, scraps of cloth.”
She said no more—it was too soon for the girl to understand.
Lydia’s father had been a carpenter—skilled hands, never without work. He earned well, but evenings demanded a bottle on the table. He came home merry, her mother grumbling, but he never raised a hand—if anything, he was soft with the children.
They never had a Christmas tree at home. The first decorated fir Lydia ever saw was in the schoolhouse, and oh, how magical it felt.
Father died when she was nine. Grandfather followed two months later. Mother, left alone with six, was helped by neighbours for the burials, but life grew harsher than ever.
“Mum, how will we manage?” Lydia had whispered.
“I don’t know, love… But we must. What choice have we?”
Childhood ended there. Lydia became nurse, cook, and cleaner for the little ones. Dreams of playmates and games faded. Summers were easier—gardens and livestock were hard labour, but familiar.
At ten, she fell from the hayloft, reaching for feed. Her arm was badly hurt. The doctor saved it, but her fingers never worked right again. School became a struggle, though she tried.
After eighth form, she was sent to a trade school. There, at last, she found happiness. Friends, respect, praise for her diligence—especially in sewing.
“Lydia, what fine stitches! See how neat her work is!”
She even travelled abroad once, among the top students. On holidays, she brought gifts home—clothes she’d sewn for her siblings. Rarely did she keep anything for herself.
In her second year, she fell for Paul. Kind, cheerful, attentive. They courted, and she dreamed of marriage. But her mother was sharp.
“Who’d wed you, with that arm? Your lot is solitude.”
The words cut deep. Slowly, she and Paul drifted apart. After school, Lydia found work, but when the factory let hands go, she had to return to Oakendale.
And then *he* appeared—Peter. Tall, handsome, hardworking. Built his house, settled nearby. And noticed Lydia…
And so it began anew—only properly this time. He didn’t mind the years between them. Her scars—inside and out—never frightened him. He simply loved her.
Their son grew up kind and clever. Now little Lily brings them joy.
That evening, as the stew cooled, she saw him through the window. Peter walked in, weary but smiling.
“Well, love, that’s that! Planting’s done. Let me rest a while,” he said, stepping inside.
She straightened his collar, held him close. And he looked at her, just as he had years before. With love.
