She was supposed to be a small farm wife till she and her husband died of old age, in some comfort. Watching their grand babies tottle around on the cottage lot, while their parents worked at the main house or in the fields. A gentle retirement.
This wasn’t the plan for her life. But she’d never shied away from work or people. So maybe she had a fighting chance? And she had some good mead recipes and a good port.
So the widow went into town with the few dollars she had and opened an ale house.
There was room in the back for starters and grain storage. And a small kitchen where she could make bar snacks. To keep the punters happy and maybe a little less prone to dust ups at the bar tables. Not that the villagers were layabouts. But they might have a bad day.
The widow quickly got into the swing of things. She hired a couple teenagers whose families where poorer and needed the income to help out. The girls chopped veg and watched pots, and the boys did the lifting and serving. There’d be no monkey business in her bar.
Widow MacDonald kept a stern eye over everything and settled into long days of pouring for the men in the main room. And set up a tea and sandwiches’ room in case any of her old friends wanted to come by and visit.
And she took a few dollars home to the farm and some candies for her grandbabies.
She and her son went over the books together and she was proud when he thought she was doing a good enough job to keep the ale house going.
Widow MacDonald was independent. And quite enjoying herself.