Ive already packed the essentials in my mind, ready to slip away with my son from my husband and his parents, and leave this tiny English village behind. No, I am not about to dedicate my life to sheep, cows, or endless vegetable gardens out here in the middle of nowhere. Just because I married Tom, they assume Ive signed up to be the unpaid worker on their family farm. But I disagree. This is not the life I want, and I certainly dont want my little boy growing up somewhere his only excitement is to argue whether Bessie the cow gave enough milk this week.
When I first moved here after marrying Tom, it almost seemed like things wouldnt be so bad. Tom was considerate, and his parents, Margaret and her husband, seemed welcoming enough. The village even had its own sort of charm: rolling green fields, fresh air, quiet. For a while, I convinced myself Id settle in. But reality showed its colours soon enough. Just a week after we arrived, Margaret handed me a bucket and told me to milk the goats. Youre one of us now, Victoria, you need to help out! She said it with a smile that still makes my skin crawl. I was a city girl, whod never lifted anything heavier than a laptop, now being ordered to learn to milk before sundown. That was my first warning.
Turns out Tom had no intention of standing up for me. Mums right, everyone pitches in here, he said when I tried to object. And so my new schedule began: up at five in the morning, feed the animals, weed the veg patch, clean the house, cook for everyone. I felt more like a servant than a wife. If I ever dared ask for a day off, Margaret would roll her eyes and start up: In my day, women worked from dawn till dusk and didnt whinge about it! Tom just kept quiet, acting as though it wasnt his concern.
My son, only three, was my one ray of light. When I look at him, I know I dont want him to grow up here, where the future means either working on a farm or moving off to London, always an outsider. I want him to attend a good nursery, to learn, to travel, to explore the world. Here? Here there isnt even half-decent internet for him to watch cartoons. When I suggested signing him up for a painting class in the next village over, Margaret snorted: Whats the point? Hed be better off learning how to milk the cows, thats proper useful!
I tried talking to Tom about how trapped I felt, telling him this wasnt the life Id dreamed of. But he just shrugged: Everyone lives like this, Victoria. What do you expect? To top it off, Ive just learned Margaret is already planning on extending the cattle shed and buying another cow and of course, I know all the extra work will land squarely in my lap. That was the last straw.
So I started putting away a bit of money in secret. Not much, but enough for two coach fares to the city. I have a friend in Oxford whos promised to help with a place to stay and a job. I can already see me and my boy boarding that coach, leaving the village, the goats, the cows, and Margarets lectures well behind. I dream of a tiny flat where its just the two of us, where I can work and he can grow up with real opportunities. I want to remember what it feels like to be human, not some kind of farmhand.
Of course Im scared. I dont know what life in the city will throw at us. Will I find a job? Will I be able to afford it all? But I do know this I cant stay here. Every time I see my son playing in the garden, I know he deserves more than this. So do I. I dont ever want him to watch his mother bowing under this burden, fading away just to keep others happy.
Margaret said the other day that Im far too much of a city girl and that Ill never really be one of them. You know what? Shes right. I dont want to be one of them. I want to be myself Victoria, who used to dream of a career, travel, and a happy family. And Ill do anything to reclaim that life, even if it means grabbing a suitcase and running away with my son to a place where no-one expects me to milk cows.
Ready to Escape with My Son and the Bare Essentials from This Remote Village
I had already packed my suitcase in my mind with the bare essentials to escape with my son from my husband and his parents, from this tiny lost village deep in the countryside. No, I am not going to dedicate my life to goats, cows, and their endless vegetable plots. Just because I married James, they assume I’ve automatically signed up to be the unpaid worker on their farm. But I disagree. This is not my life, and I won’t let my son grow up in this swamp where the only entertainment is arguing about how much milk Daisy the cow produced.
When I first arrived after the wedding, it seemed things wouldn’t be so bad. James was attentive, his parents—Linda and her husband—seemed friendly enough. The village had a certain charm: green fields, fresh air, quiet. I even thought I might adapt. But reality didn’t take long to show its true face. One week after moving in, Linda handed me a bucket and told me to milk the goats. “You’re one of us now, Emily, you must muck in!” she said, with a smile that still gives me the shivers. Me, a city girl who had never lifted anything heavier than a laptop, had to learn how to milk goats before sunset. That was my wake-up call.
James, as it turns out, had no intention of defending me. “Mum’s right, everyone pitches in here,” he replied when I tried to protest. And so began my new routine: up at five, feeding the animals, weeding the garden, cleaning the house, cooking for everyone. I felt more like a maid than a wife. If I dared to ask for a day off, Linda would roll her eyes and start her lecture: “In my day, women worked from dawn till dusk and never complained!” James just stood by, as if none of this concerned him.
My three-year-old son was my only light. Whenever I look at him, I know I don’t want him to grow up here, where his future is either working the farm or moving to London, where he’ll always be an outsider. I want him to go to a good nursery, to learn, to travel, to see the world. And here? There isn’t even decent internet to put cartoons on for him. When I mentioned enrolling him in a painting class in the nearest town, Linda snorted: “What for? Better he learns to milk a cow—that’s actually useful!”
I tried speaking to James. I explained that I felt suffocated, that this wasn’t what I had dreamed of. But he just shrugged: “Everyone lives like this, Emily. What do you want?” And recently I discovered Linda is already planning to extend the cowshed and get another cow. Of course, all the work would fall on me. That was the last straw.
I’ve started saving money in secret. Not much, but enough for two bus tickets to the city. I have a friend in Oxford who’s promised to help me with a place to stay and a job. I already imagine my son and I boarding that bus, leaving behind this village, the goats, the cows, and Linda’s sermons. I dream of a little flat—just our cozy space—where I can work and my son can grow up with opportunities. I want to feel human again, not just a machine for labour.
Of course, I’m scared. I don’t know what life will be like in the city. Will I find a job? Will the money last? But I know one thing: I can’t stay here. Every time I see my son playing in the garden, I think he deserves more. And so do I. I don’t want him to see his mum bending under this burden, losing herself to please others.
Linda said the other day that I’m “too much of a city girl” and that I’ll never be one of them. You know what? She’s right. I don’t want to become one of them. I want to be me—Emily, who used to dream of a career, of travel, of a happy family. And I’ll do whatever it takes to reclaim that life. Even if it means grabbing a suitcase and running away with my son to somewhere we’re not forced to milk cows.
