She fled to the countryside and found happiness.
Anne hurriedly packed her belongings, her hands trembling, tears gathering in her eyes. After twenty years of marriage, her husband announced he was leaving her for a younger, cheerful womannothing like Anne, who was weary from work, perpetually occupied with household chores and raising children.
The children had already grown. Her son studied in another city and rarely visited. Her daughter had married and moved to her husbands home. Anne was left alone in a spacious flat that suddenly seemed empty and foreign.
She tossed her things into a suitcase without considering what she actually needed. What did it matter? All she wanted was to run, to hide from the pain and humiliation.
The phone rang just as she was fastening the suitcase. She saw a familiar name on the screen and sighed; she did not feel like speaking to anyone.
Hello? she answered reluctantly.
Anne, love, Ive just heard How are you? Sarahs voice sounded worried.
Fine, Anne replied flatly. Im packing.
Where are you heading?
I dont know, Anne admitted honestly. I simply cant stay here any longer.
You still have the cottage in the village, the one your grandmother left you. Why not go there?
Anne froze. Indeed, she owned a small, aging cottage that had belonged to her mothers mother. They used to visit it when the children were young, then stopped. Stephen, her husband, always complained that the village was boring and that he preferred the seaside.
Sarah, youre a genius! Anne exclaimed. Thats where Ill go!
Is it livable? Does it have heating?
Theres a stove and electricity. Thats all I need.
Within an hour Anne was on the commuter train bound for Willowbrook, a village fifty miles from the city. A world apart.
Willowbrook greeted her with quiet and the scent of lilacs. The cottage sat on the edge of the lane, surrounded by ancient apple trees. She struggled to push open the creaking gate and stepped into the yard.
Everything looked abandoned. Grass was waisthigh, the porch sagged, one window was broken. Anne sighed heavily. What would she do here? How could she live? She was a city dweller used to comfort.
A hoarse voice broke the silence. Who’s there? a tiny, bent old woman emerged from behind the house, a wooden cane in hand.
Good afternoon, Anne said, bewildered. Im the granddaughter of Mary Thompson. This is her house.
Marys house? the old woman squinted at the stranger. And you are Anne?
Yes, Anne replied, surprised. And you are?
Im Priscilla, a neighbour. Your grandmother and I were friends. What brings you here?
Ill be living, Anne said, surprising herself with firmness.
Living? Priscilla shook her head doubtfully. You cant live here. The house is derelict, needs repair. And youre a city woman, arent you?
Ill manage, Anne insisted and walked toward the cottage.
She found the key in her bag, turned the lock, and entered. Dampness and dust filled the air. Inside lay dated furniture cloaked in a layer of grime, a stove in the corner, a table, two beds, and faded photographs on the walls. One showed a youthful, beautiful grandmother smiling.
Anne sank onto a bed and wept, finally allowing the tears that had been held back for so long to flow. She sobbed bitterly, venting all her hurt and anger.
When the tears dried, a strange calm settled over her. In that old house she felt shielded from the world; no one would see her grief, no one would judge.
The next morning she awoke to birdsong and bright sunlight streaming through the window. She washed her face with cold water from a bucket and stepped into the yard.
Morning, neighbour, a familiar hoarse voice called. Priscilla stood by the fence, a large bundle in her hands.
Morning, Anne replied.
I thought youd be hungry. Brought you some milk, bread, and a few potatoes. The shops a trek away.
Thank you, Anne said, touched. Youre very kind.
Neighbours help each other, Priscilla waved her hand. Are you sure you intend to stay?
Yes, Anne answered, but I have no idea where to start.
Start with cleaning, Priscilla suggested. I have rags and a broom.
They spent the whole day scrubbing, dusting, airing the rooms. By evening Anne collapsed from exhaustion, yet for the first time in years she felt satisfaction in the work she had done.
Tomorrow well check the stove, Priscilla said as she left. The spring can be chilly.
Anne nodded. She began to understand that village life meant constant labour, a thought that strangely soothed rather than frightened her.
The following days were full of chores. They repaired the stove, glazed the broken window, steadied the porch. Anne learned to cook on the open fire, draw water from the well, and heat the old bathhouse. Her hands grew calloused, her back ached, but her body adjusted to the physical toil.
One evening a new visitor arrived with Priscillaa woman named Margaret who worked at the local library.
Pleasure, Margaret said, shaking Annes hand. New faces are rare around here, especially ones who intend to stay.
Im not sure how long, Anne admitted shyly.
What did you do in the city? Margaret asked.
I was an accountant, Anne replied.
And your education?
Economics, Anne shrugged. Why?
Our school is short of teachers, especially for mathematics. Could you give it a try, even temporarily?
The idea was unexpected, but it intrigued Anne.
A week later she stood before a handful of village childrenjust fifteen of various agesin a modest classroom that served several grades at once.
Good morning, children, Annes voice trembled at first. My name is Anne Thompson, and Ill be teaching you maths.
The pupils stared cautiously. Anne breathed deeply and began. To her surprise, teaching proved engaging; the children asked thoughtful questions, and by the lessons end she felt a lift in her spirit.
Soon Annes days were filled with school, tending the garden she decided to revive, and the growing camaraderie of neighbours. Her son sent occasional messages, her daughter called now and then, but Anne answered simply, All is well here, which truly was the case.
The city felt distant and irrelevant. Sometimes she recalled the flat, the job, Stephen, but those memories no longer caused pain; they were merely remnants of a past that lay beyond a line she had crossed.
One evening a sturdy farmer named John Parker knocked on her door, his broad shoulders and kindly face framed by a thick beard.
Anne Thompson, may I come in? he asked, shifting his weight.
Of course, John, please, she replied, offering tea.
They sat, sipping honeyed tea, and John spoke of his farm and future plans. After a while he said, Im looking for an assistant with bookkeeping skills. The farm is expanding, paperwork is piling up, and Im not good with numbers. Could you help?
Anne considered the offer. It was unexpected yet appealing; she missed professional work.
Ill think about it, she said.
Do think soon, John replied. The season is starting, theres much to do.
A few days later she accepted. Her schedule grew even fuller: school in the morning, bookkeeping for John in the afternoon, garden work in the evening.
John later offered his tractor to help with the overgrown garden.
Its a lot for one person, he said. I can plough the beds for you.
The next day John arrived with the tractor and turned the soil in a few hours. Together they planted potatoes, onions, carrots, laughing and occasionally bickering.
Your fence is falling apart, John observed, eyeing the yard.
I have no money for a new one, Anne sighed.
Well do it together, he said, smiling. I have timber, you provide the meals. Deal?
She agreed, grateful for his practicality and good humour. The whole village rallied: Priscilla with her son, Margaret with her husband, and others joined to raise the fence. After a days hard work they celebrated with a makeshift feast in Annes yard.
To a new home! John toasted with a mug of homemade ale.
To a fresh life! Margaret added.
Anne looked at these plain, openhearted people and felt she had finally found her place. In the village, among nature and honest folk, she discovered the thing she had missed in the city: a genuine life.
One autumn, her former husband Stephen arrived unexpectedly, his expensive car grinding to a halt at the gate.
Anne, he called, may I come in?
She straightened, wiped her hands on her apron, and nodded. Stephen stepped onto the yard, eyes wide with astonishment.
You live here? he asked.
Yes, Anne replied simply.
But why? You have a flat in the city, all the comforts
I like it here, she shrugged.
Stephen examined her; she looked healthier, slimmer, her gait confident, her eyes sparkling with a new light.
You lookdifferent, he remarked.
I am different now, Anne smiled. Would you like some tea?
They sat on the veranda, drinking tea with homemade blackberry jam. Stephen spoke of his new life, lacking the enthusiasm of his former self. Anne listened politely, but his words no longer pierced her.
Ive come for you, Stephen finally said. Come back home. I was wrong. That other woman was a fleeting mistake. I realized I love only you.
Anne regarded him with the calm she had earned. Not long ago those words would have quickened her heart; now they merely registered.
Stephen, she said softly, Im grateful for your apology, but I will not return. My home is here.
But this is a village! he exclaimed. Theres no theatre, no restaurant, no shops!
Here we have a real life, Anne answered evenly, and real people.
What about our marriage? Twenty years together
Our marriage ended when you left, she said without blame. If you hadnt gone, I might never have found myself.
Stephen stared, bewildered. This confident woman was nothing like the Anne he remembered.
Are you happy here? he finally asked.
Yes, she replied simply. I am happy.
When Stephen drove away, Anne returned to her garden. Soon John arrived with a bucket of apples from his orchard.
Anne Thompson, fresh apples for you! he called, waving a bag of the sweetest variety.
Thank you, John, she replied. Could you help me harvest the carrots? Its hard alone.
Of course, he said, delighted. For you, anything.
They worked side by side, chatting occasionally as the sun painted the sky pink. The air smelled of apples and autumn leaves.
Who was that at the gate? John asked later, still holding a carrot.
My former husband, Anne answered.
What did he want?
He tried to lure me back to the city.
John paused, then asked, And you?
I refused, Anne said, smiling. Im content here.
John beamed and went back to his tasks. Their silence was comfortable, the kind that only two people who truly understand each other can share.
Later that evening John lingered at the doorway.
Theres a concert at the village hall on Saturday, followed by dancing. Would you like to come with me?
Annes smile widened.
Id love that, John, she replied.
On Saturday Anne wore her finest dresssimple, yet elegant. John arrived, freshly dressed, holding a bouquet of wildflowers.
You look lovely, he said, presenting the flowers.
The concert was heartfelt, a gathering of locals singing folk songs, reciting poetry, and dancing. John asked Anne to a waltz. He was clumsy but earnest; his strong, gentle hands guided her through the dance. He whispered, Anne Thompson, Im a simple man, without city airs, but Im utterly taken with you.
Anne looked into his honest eyes and felt the same. I feel the same, John, she murmured.
They danced until the night grew late, and John escorted her home, holding her hand at the gate.
May I visit tomorrow? he asked.
Come whenever you like, Anne replied, heart swelling.
She stood at her window, watching his sturdy figure disappear down the lane, and realized she was truly happy for the first time in her life.
Winter cloaked the village in snow. John cleared the paths each morning, and they often spent evenings together over tea, sharing plans.
One day Margaret remarked, You and John make a wonderful pair. Whens the wedding?
Anne blushed, Were just friends.
Margaret smiled, Friends who look at each other with lovers eyes.
When spring arrived, John proposed simply, without flourish.
Will you marry me, Anne? I love you.
She answered, I will, John. I love you too.
The whole village celebrated the wedding. Annes son and daughter arrived, initially shocked by their mothers choice, but after seeing her radiant happiness they embraced it.
Just glad youre happy, Mum, her daughter said, hugging her.
And Anne truly was happy. She had found her place in a tiny English village, among plain folk, beside the man she loved. That happiness was real, unpretended, and enduring.
Each morning she awoke with a smile, eager for the day ahead. Teaching at the school, working on the farm, caring for her home, evenings by the fire with Johneverything gave her life meaning.
Sometimes she thought back to the frantic city life, full of stress and empty chatter. How could she ever have called that happiness?
Now Anne knew the secret: happiness is being where you belong, doing what you love, surrounded by people who truly cherish you.
She had left the city to escape pain and disappointment, only to discover love and herself in the countryside. And at long last, she was happy, just as the stories of simple, bright lives tell.
