The Cottage Farm

The cottage where we used to live had only one room. I had lived there with my parents for ten years before we moved to London. We were poor but happy. My father was a simple farmer and my mother was always busy with household chores.

That day I had been in the barn with my father feeding the chickens before we heard the gun shooting and my mother’s scream. I don’t remember how I rushed out from the barn and ran to the cottage. Old Daffy, our dog, was lying in a pool of blood. There was a man with a gun in his hand in front of the cottage. My mother was crying when we arrived there. I understood that he was the thief who had escaped from the jail. My father ran towards the thief with a tire iron and beat him to death after he had found the dog being killed. I knew he thought he could kill my mother too, so he got into a panic.

“Self-defense”, said dad as he was led in handcuffs to the police station. Fortunately, my father wasn’t charged for the killing but we couldn’t stay there anymore and decided to move to London. We had sold everything we had before we left. Now, we have a new life in London.