Ready to Run with My Son and the Essentials of This Village
I’d already packed the essentials in my mindjust enough to escape with my son from my husband and his parents, from this tiny village lost in the middle of nowhere. No, I wont dedicate my life to their goats, their cows, and their endless vegetable patches. They think that because I married James, I automatically signed a contract to be the unpaid labourer of their farm. But I disagree. This isnt my life, and I dont want my son growing up in this backwater, where the only entertainment is arguing over how many litres of milk Daisy the cow gave.
When I first arrived after the wedding, it almost seemed like things wouldnt be so bad. James was attentive; his parents, Margaret and her husband, seemed kind. The village even had its charmrolling green fields, fresh air, quiet. For a moment, I thought I could adjust. But reality wasnt slow to show its true face. A week after moving in, Margaret handed me a bucket and told me to milk the goats. “Youre one of us now, Emilyyouve got to pull your weight!” she said, with a smile that still makes my skin crawl. Me, a city girl whod never lifted anything heavier than a laptop, forced to learn how to milk before sundown. That was my first warning.
James, as it turned out, had no intention of standing up for me. “Mums righteveryone works here,” he replied when I tried to protest. And so began my new routine: up at dawn, feeding animals, weeding the garden, scrubbing the house, cooking for everyone. I felt more like a maid than a wife. And if I dared ask for a days rest, Margaret would roll her eyes and launch into her lecture: “In my day, women worked from sunup to sundown and didnt complain!” James would stay silent, as if it had nothing to do with him.
My son, just three years old, was my only light. Looking at him, I knew I couldnt let him grow up here, where his future boiled down to slaving on the farm or moving to London, where hed always be an outsider. I want him to go to a good nursery, to study, to travel, to see the world. But here? Here, theres not even decent internet to put cartoons on for him. When I mentioned enrolling him in an art class in the nearest town, Margaret scoffed: “Whats the point? Hed be better off learning to milk the cowthats useful!”
I tried talking to James. I told him I felt suffocated, that this wasnt the life Id dreamed of. But he just shrugged. “This is how everyone lives, Emily. What do you want?” And then I found out Margarets already planning to expand the barn and buy another cow. Of course, the work would all fall on me. That was the last straw.
I started saving money in secret. Not much, but enough for two bus tickets to the city. A friend in Manchester promised to help with a place to stay and a job. I can already picture itmy son and I boarding that bus, leaving this village, the goats, the cows, and Margarets lectures behind. I dream of a tiny flat where its just us, where I can work and my son can grow up with chances. I want to feel human again, not like some workhorse.
Of course, Im afraid. I dont know what life in the city will be like. Will I find work? Will the money last? But one things certainI cant stay here. Every time I see my son playing in the yard, I think he deserves more. And so do I. I wont let him watch his mother bend under this weight, losing herself to please others.
Margaret said the other day that Im “too soft, too city” and that Ill never be one of them. You know what? Shes right. I dont want to be one of them. I want to be myselfEmily, who once dreamed of a career, of adventures, of a happy family. And Ill do whatever it takes to reclaim that life. Even if it means grabbing a bag and running with my son to somewhere no one can force me to milk a cow.
