I was a lazy, spoiled twenty-year-old layabout. But one encounter turned my world upside down.
When I was five or six, my mother would often say, “Darling, you must have everything you want—full stop.” At first, it was toys, then the largest slice of cake at parties, then medals in school competitions. If I didn’t get my way, I’d throw a tantrum until I did. Without realizing it, I grew up believing the world owed me. Not just owed—it was an obligation.
Mum did her best. In her eyes, I was the only light in her life, and she made sure I felt extraordinary. But this overbearing love, this endless indulgence, didn’t make me a better person. Quite the opposite—I became petulant, lazy, aimless. I lived for my own pleasure, assuming it would never end. Then—everything collapsed. First, I was fired from the job Mum had scraped together through connections. Then she died. Suddenly. An illness no one caught in time. And just like that, I was alone—penniless, friendless, purposeless. As if my whole world had dissolved.
Only then did I remember I had a father.
He had always been quiet, almost invisible next to Mum’s domineering presence. He never contradicted her, living in her shadow, never taking initiative. But when she was gone, he changed. Or rather—he became his true self. He looked at me differently, like a lost child who could still be saved. After a few months, he said, “Time to change your life. We’re moving to the countryside.” I was stunned.
“What?! Me? The countryside?” I scoffed, every inch the “city prince” accustomed to luxury and idleness.
“We’ll grow sunflowers. And keep chickens,” he said calmly.
I slammed the door in response. He left without me. Didn’t argue. And he was right to.
For two months, I drifted through London, job hunting—uselessly. I was sacked within weeks. Nothing worked. Money vanished, pride evaporated. Desperate, I called Dad, expecting him to wire me funds. Instead, he said,
“Come. See for yourself.”
I had no choice left. Three days later, I was on a train to a small village near York. On the journey, I met a woman. We talked. Turned out, she was heading the same way—to her mother’s house, where her daughter lived. We walked together, and suddenly, I saw a girl of about twelve digging in the dirt outside a cottage.
“’Ello! Want a spade? The earth’s soft today—perfect for tomatoes,” she said, beaming.
It was like lightning struck me. This girl was my opposite in every way. She was the woman’s daughter, living next door to Dad. Since he wasn’t home yet, they invited me in. I stayed for supper, and before I knew it, I was standing in the garden with a spade beside this bright-eyed girl, Poppy, who eagerly explained how to plant seedlings. And… I liked it.
From then on, everything shifted. I spent more time with her. While Dad worked in the fields with her mother—Mabel—I stayed with Poppy. She showed me how to sweep the barn, milk the goat, chop dill for drying… Her energy could power a village. She’d lost her father at seven, battled illness, but never once complained. She was tougher and wiser than me.
That was the first tremor in my heart. I started waking early, hauling buckets, feeding chickens, laughing as we raced through the garden, learning to find joy in the simple things. Then one day, she fell ill. Fever spiked past 40. Her body was fragile. The whole house was frantic. That night was hell. I never left her side. And in that darkness, I realized—I wasn’t the same man anymore.
Six months later, I barely recognized myself. I’d become someone my old self would’ve mocked. I loved watching flowers bloom. I carried feed pails with pride. I learned to cook. I learned to live.
Later, I returned to London. Studied to be a teacher—ironic, wasn’t it? A spoiled brat who barely knew how to function, now shaping young minds. But—somehow—it worked. Today, I have my own classroom. Former students still visit just to talk. And I have a family. Two kids. A wife. Her name’s Alice. And she’s my rock.
As for Poppy… she’s my stepsister now. Dad married Mabel. I’m her big brother, and probably her fiercest ally. Every time I look at her, I know—she saved me. Not Dad, not fate, not hardship. Her. A little girl with a spade in her hands.
Funny, how one meeting can rewrite a life. And the best part? It’s never too late to start over. Even at twenty. Even when you’ve been nothing. You just need someone to show you how.
