“Listen, Edward!” Victoria’s voice trembled, but there was steel in it. “I’m leaving to stay with Gran in the countryside. And you know what? I might not come back!”
The man gaped at his wife, stunned. He tried to speak, but she wasn’t listening. Grabbing a dusty suitcase from the shelf, Victoria began tossing things inside—like she was ripping out everything that tied her to this house. Jumpers, jeans, blouses—all thrown in haphazardly, like she was escaping a fire.
A week passed. The air in the village was different—fresh, sharp with honesty. Her phone buzzed constantly with calls and messages from Edward, but she ignored them. Only once did she reply: “I need time. Don’t call.” Then, one morning, stepping onto the porch, she spotted a box by the door…
…A year ago, she never could’ve imagined standing here—barefoot on the cold earth outside her childhood home, breathing properly for the first time in years.
Edward had always been controlling. Her thoughts, her feelings, her wants—all drowned under his “must,” “should,” “don’t be ridiculous.” When he invited his mum to live with them, he didn’t ask. When Victoria wanted to visit Gran, he exploded: “Your place is with me!”
But Gran—she was the woman who raised her when her mother vanished, leaving with just a promise: “I’ll be back soon.” The one who’d stroked her hair at night, humming lullabies. The one who stayed when the rest of the world walked away.
…On the train leaving the grey city, Victoria stared out the window, memories floating up—Gran baking pies, reading stories, kissing her forehead. And for the first time in years, she realised—she wanted to go home. Really home.
Her heart pounded as she reached the house. Then, there she was—a familiar figure by the gate. Small, bent, but proud, leaning on her walking stick.
“Vicky-love…” Gran whispered, and in those words was everything: forgiveness, love, hope.
Victoria stayed. She looked after Gran—cooked soups, scrubbed floors, planted flowers. With each day, she felt something inside her mend. Something crushed by years of being silenced. Freedom. Strength. Self-love.
One afternoon, Gran wiped her hands on her apron and brought out an old box.
“This was from your granddad,” she said. “He loved painting on weekends.”
Inside—brushes, paints, canvases. Victoria picked one up, running her fingers along the bristles. Tears pricked her eyes. She’d once dreamed of being an artist. When had she forgotten?
From that day, she painted. Tentatively at first, then with confidence. Landscapes, faces, home. Her first portrait was of Gran—smiling, kind, real.
Edward’s calls grew rare. Eventually, he texted: “Come back. I’ve changed.” She read it—then deleted it.
Months later, the village library hosted her first exhibition. At the centre was a portrait of Marjorie Hartley—the woman who hadn’t just given her shelter, but the courage to be herself.
Alex, the local photographer, came. He stared at her work like it was magic. When he approached to say he was smitten, Victoria didn’t flinch.
“I didn’t come back, Gran,” she whispered one evening by Marjorie’s grave. “I stayed. Here. With you. With myself.”
The wind carried the scent of apple crumble, and she smiled through her tears—that’s what home smells like. That’s what love smells like. That’s what freedom smells like.