I sat by the kitchen window, watching the drizzle over the fields behind the cottage. The glass was grimy; Id have liked to wash it, but I lacked both the strength and the will. The garden beyond had become a tangle of nettles and dock, yet Margaret Porter cared little for it. The harsh winter had drained the last of her vigor, and even if she wanted to pull the weeds, she simply couldnt. Moving around the house was a struggle now, let alone tending a plot. The frost that past season had left the old coal fire coughing, the chimney likely blocked, and we were forced to ration the wood. So Margaret kept the fire low, slipping about in rubber boots and a threadbare coat. Trips to the shop were rare; there wasnt much she needed.

In February she fell ill with a severe chill. She thought she wouldnt pull through. Fortunately, our neighbour Gladys Harper dropped by, and with her came the local doctor. He examined Margaret briefly, then shook his head thoughtfully.

Medicine can only do so much, he said. What matters most is the desire to live and to fight the illness.

Im old enough, Margaret replied, turning away.

Each day that desire seemed to fade a little more. Why bother? For whom? For what? Yet the sickness eventually relented. Gladys visited daily, bringing steaming bowls of broth and brewing fresh tea.

Dont be a worrywart, dear, Margaret would chide. Theres work amillion at home.

Itll be fine, Gladys replied, stoking the fire. Ive asked my husband Victor to bring a load of wood on Saturday. Youll be warm, and youll have me to look after you.

Gladys was in her early fortiesspirited, diligent, and eversmiling. She and Margaret had gone to school together with Margarets son, Nicholas Harper. Nicholas left for university in Manchester, stayed there, married a city girl named Eleanor, and settled into a comfortable life. When they visited, they never helped with the well or the garden, but Margaret never held it against her daughterinlaw; all she wanted was for Nicholas to be happy.

Soon a grandson arrivedSammy, a cheeky little lad who grew up fast. The family would send him to the village each summer; fresh air and open fields suited him well. As the years passed, visits became less frequent. After the next New Year, only a handful of trips remained. One summer, while nibbling a sprig of dill, Eleanor remarked,

Margaret, why are you planting so much at your age?

Ill harvest in August, and youll have vegetables to see you through the winter, Margaret replied.

Do we really need to buy anything? Nicholas added. The shops full of chemicals, but here its all homegrown and natural.

By late August Margaret was bottling crisp pickles and plum compote, hoping the winter would bring a reminder of home when the jars were opened. When the first snow fell, she began knitting socks and mittenssmall pink pairs for Eleanor, bright yellow ones with snowflake patterns, and greyblue sets for Nicholas and Sammy. She gave them out during the school holidays.

Why all this surplus? Eleanor complained, eyeing the heap of gifts.

At least theyll keep you warm, Margaret said with a shy smile, aware that her presents were more sentimental than fashionable. Eleanor was always uptodate with the latest trends, and Nicholas drove a sleek sedan, yet she still appreciated Margarets careful handiwork.

Nicholas tried several times to persuade his mother to move to the city.

Buy you a flat, with central heating and water, he offered.

No, son, Margaret answered. This is where I grew up, where my father lived, where my memories sit. Visit more often instead.

What about work? he pressed.

Your holidays are enough, she said, hopeful.

Holiday in the country? Eleanor laughed. Working a whole year just for a weekend in the village? No thank you.

Margaret nodded. She longed to be nearer to her son, but she could not abandon the home that had cradled her whole life. She remembered the few trips she and Nicholass father had taken to the nearby market town when they were young, eager to see the bustle of a larger place, only to find the noise and crowds unappealing. Here, in the countryside, she felt content.

Her husband had died twenty years ago, while Nicholas was still at university. The emptiness was palpable, yet she never called him back; the village offered little prospect for a newcomer. She waited for the familys visits, but last summer tragedy struck. Their car collided headon with a loaded lorry; Nicholas, Eleanor, and Sammy perished. From that day onward, Margarets spark dimmed. Sittingbythewindow, she recalled young Nicholass face, Sammys grin, and tears traced the lines of her cheeks.

Mrs. Porter, how are you feeling? Gladyss bright voice snapped me back to the present. She stood by the low fence opposite the window.

Nothing to worry about, dear. How are you?

Just baked some onion scones; Ill pop over for tea this evening, Gladly replied, hurrying away.

Hours later, as dusk settled and the air grew fresh, the garden gate swung open. Young Sherry, Gladyss twelveyearold son, rushed in with a bucket of water, followed by his mother carrying a towelwrapped plate. Behind them trailed Anya, holding her little sister Zoes hand. The Harper family was large: four older boys and two younger girls, and Gladys was expecting another child. Victor, her husband, was a sturdy man raised among nine siblings, always dreaming of a bustling household, a dream Gladys welcomed.

Sherry, fetch more water! Gladys called as she entered Margarets cottage. Mrs. Porter needs to be taken care of before the pies cool.

Gladys, youre fussing over an oldtimer, Sherry teased.

Its only because weve lived side by side for so long. Did you take your tablets today? Gladys asked, pulling mugs from the cupboard.

Yes, Margaret sighed. What good are they? I wish the Almighty would take me home soon.

Youre being foolish, Sherry replied. If you trust the Almighty, you shouldnt speak like that. Theres a purpose for everything.

Just my little worries, Margaret muttered.

Whats this, Auntie Margaret? Anya pointed at an unfinished mitten with dangling yarn.

Its a mitten I started but never finished, Margaret answered.

Its beautifulsoft, pink, Anya cooed, brushing the yarn. Can you give it to me when its done?

Ill gladly, Margaret replied, a little startled.

Make one for Zoe, too, little and red, Anya added.

Settle down! Gladys laughed at her daughter. Maybe Ill learn to knit myself. For me, for Zoe, for Sherry everyone! Teach me, Auntie Margaret.

Come by tomorrow, love, and well start, Margaret promised.

Ill be there! Anya vowed.

Sherry returned with a second bucket. An old electric kettle, a gift from Nicholas, whistled as it boiled. They gathered for tea.

Another boy on the horizon, Gladys said, patting her rounded belly. She chuckled, Im not sure the timings right, but well manage. The summer harvest is coming, and Ill have to juggle everything.

She talked of her eldest son staying in the city for a summer placement, the middle son barely passing his exams, and Victors promotion to foreman at the plant. Margaret listened halfheartedly, eyes drifting to the children darting about with pastries. A warmth grew inside her, a faint hope that perhaps she could still be of useteaching Anya to knit, filling the cupboards with yarn, making enough mittens for the growing family. The thought of the empty house after the Harpers left made her smile a little; she imagined a future where she wasnt just a relic but a source of comfort.

Zoe rubbed her eyes and yawned.

We need to remember the stories, Margaret said aloud. The ones with happy endings.

What stories? Gladys asked.

The ones that end well, always. I patted Zoes head, feeling for the thread of purpose that still ran through my own life.

Tonight, as I close this entry, I realize that even in the deepest winter of the heart, a simple actoffering a warm cup, a knitted glove, a listening earcan rekindle a spark. I have learned that caring for others, no matter how small the gesture, is the very thing that keeps us alive.