THE ROAD TO HERSELF
“Listen, Edward!” Victoria’s voice trembled, but there was steel beneath it. “I’m leaving for my grandmother’s cottage 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 was no longer listening. Pulling a dusty suitcase from the shelf, she began throwing things into it—as if tearing out everything that tied her to this house. Jumpers, jeans, blouses—all tumbled into the bag as if she were fleeing a fire.
A week passed. In the countryside, the air was different—clear, piercingly honest. Victoria’s phone buzzed with calls and messages from Edward, but she ignored them. Only once did she reply: “I need space. Don’t call.” Then, one morning, stepping onto the porch, she spotted a box by the door…
…A year ago, she could never have imagined standing like this—barefoot on the cold earth by her grandmother’s old cottage, breathing properly for the first time in her life.
Edward had always been domineering. Her thoughts, feelings, desires—all drowned in his “should,” “must,” “don’t be silly.” When he invited his mother to move in—he didn’t ask. When Victoria wanted to visit her grandmother, he raged: “Your place is with me!”
But her grandmother—the woman who raised her after her own mother vanished, leaving the child with a hollow “I’ll be back soon.” The one who stroked her hair at night and hummed lullabies. Who stayed when the rest of the world walked away.
…On the train carrying her from the grey city, Victoria stared out the window, memories flooding her mind—Grandma baking scones, reading a book, kissing her forehead. And then, for the first time in years, she knew: she wanted to go home. Truly home.
Approaching the cottage, her heart pounded. But there, at the gate, stood a familiar silhouette—frail yet proud, leaning on a cane.
“Vicky-love…” her grandmother whispered, and in that name lay everything: forgiveness, love, hope.
Victoria stayed. She tended to her grandmother, made soups, mopped floors, planted flowers. With each day, she felt something inside her returning—something crushed by years of stifling control. Freedom. Strength. Self-love.
One day, wiping her hands on her apron, Grandma brought out an old box.
“From your grandad,” she said. “He loved painting on weekends.”
Inside were brushes, paints, canvases. Victoria picked up a brush, running it over her fingers. Tears pricked her eyes. She’d dreamed of being an artist once. When had she forgotten?
From that day, she painted—hesitantly at first, then with passion. Landscapes, faces, home. Her first portrait was of Grandma—smiling, kind, real.
Edward’s calls grew sparse. Eventually, he texted: “Come back. I understand now.” She read it—and deleted it.
Months later, the village library hosted her first exhibition. At its heart was a portrait of Margaret Holloway—the woman who’d given Victoria not just shelter, but the courage to be herself.
Among the guests was Alex, a local photographer. He gazed at her work as if it were magic. When he approached to confess he’d fallen for her, Victoria, for the first time, wasn’t afraid.
“I didn’t come back, Gran,” she whispered one evening by Margaret’s grave. “I stayed. Here. With you. With myself.”
And then the wind carried the scent of blackberry pie, and she smiled through tears—that’s what home smells like. That’s what love smells like. That’s what freedom smells like.