After my husband was murdered, I had to leave the country and retreat to the border.
If it weren't for Tom Hexlay, I would have probably been arrested and killed for national treason. After all, killing the Prime Minister is not really a ticket for a speeding type of offense.
Nonetheless, thanks to my son's ex-lover I finally got to live the peace and quiet I've been yearning for since I was a child.
I live in a small house, just right for me. It's wooden, plain, but everything inside it feels like it belongs here.
A few acres stretch around it, green and full, and I tend them myself, though my neighbors are always close enough to help if I need it.
Their houses sit right next to mine, like a row of friendly shoulders, each one holding its own little family, its own little patch of land.
From my kitchen window, I can see them working—bending, sowing, laughing, calling out to one another.
We're all busy but never alone.
The land is kind here.
