Love Came Knocking…
Emma left her quiet village for the city and enrolled in university. After attending a rural school, she found studying tough, but she buried herself in textbooks to pass her exams and keep her scholarship. Her mum could only help with food parcels.
Once Emma started working, she began sending money home. Every holiday, she returned to the village. She dreamt of the seaside, of course, but she’d always say, *”Who needs the South Coast when you’ve got fresh air, woods, and the river?”*
*”Emma, love, when are you getting married? Surely there’s someone you fancy? I’ll never see grandchildren at this rate,”* her mum sighed.
*”Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll get round to it,”* Emma would say, though the endless questions about marriage grated on her. Everyone back home seemed obsessed with it.
She’d had boyfriends, even love, but no one had ever proposed.
She worked at a newspaper office. One evening, as her shift ended, a downpour raged outside. It seemed to ease, so she threw on her mac, grabbed her umbrella, and hurried out—only for the rain to come lashing back. She huddled under the building’s awning, watching cars splash through puddles, icy droplets soaking her ankles.
A Land Rover slowed before a deep puddle—then stopped completely.
*”Need a lift, love? Even if this stops, the roads are lakes—you’ll need a boat to get home,”* a bloke called through the open window.
Emma got in. Six months later, her rescuer proposed. It wasn’t love at first sight, but at her age, marriage seemed sensible, and with David, she felt safe. They moved in with his mum in a posh flat in central London.
His mother took an instant dislike to Emma.
*”Don’t think you’ll get your hands on this flat, dear. That won’t fly with me,”* she warned immediately.
*”Walking around in a dressing gown all day is vulgar. You only wear it to the bathroom. What if guests arrive? Change at once,”* her mother-in-law ordered.
So Emma changed. Cleaning and cooking in fancy dresses was wildly impractical. Meanwhile, Margaret dressed like she was hosting the Queen.
They didn’t get on. One day, Emma overheard Margaret urging David to divorce her *”before children complicate things.”* In tears, Emma told him his mum was right—they should split. She started packing.
David wouldn’t let her leave. The next day, he rented a flat, and they moved out. Life improved. Maybe Margaret still nagged David over the phone, but she never visited, and he kept it from Emma. They saved for their own place, setting aside money each month.
One Sunday, they went to the lake with friends—fishing, barbecues… Driving back in the dark, their friends sped ahead, leaving them trailing. David hit the accelerator to catch up.
Emma never saw it coming. A jeep swerved into their lane—whether the driver fell asleep or lost control, the crash was unavoidable.
David died instantly. Emma spent four months in hospital. When she was finally discharged, pale and limping, she went to their rented flat—only to find strangers living there. A small bag of her belongings was handed over. David’s things? Taken by Margaret, who’d ended the lease.
Emma went to her. The door opened—but only a crack.
*”Margaret, can I stay just until I find a place?”*
*”Absolutely not. You got my David killed. You didn’t even come to his funeral. Go away!”* The door slammed.
*”Margaret, it wasn’t my fault! I was in hospital—I couldn’t come!”* Emma shouted, pounding the wood.
*”Leave, or I’m calling the police!”* came the icy reply.
She didn’t bother asking for half their savings.
Where could she go? She had no friends—the lake trip had been David’s mates. Who knew what lies Margaret had spread?
In the clothes she stood in, she took the train to her mum’s village. But tragedy waited there too: her mother had died two months ago while Emma was hospitalised. Her phone had been crushed in the crash—no one could reach her.
The house looked untouched, as if her mum had just popped out and would rush back, exclaiming and bustling by the stove… Tears blurred Emma’s vision.
*”Mum… how could you? I need you so much…”* She sank onto the bed, clutching her mum’s cardigan—still smelling faintly of her. Sobbing, she drifted into an exhausted sleep.
A knock jolted her awake. *”Mum’s back!”* she gasped—then heard David’s voice: *”Em, open up. It’s me…”* She flung the door wide. There stood David, his face streaked with blood—
She woke screaming, heart hammering. Someone *was* knocking. *”Am I still dreaming?”* she panicked.
*”You alright in there?”* a deep voice called.
Emma opened the door to a tall, bearded man with piercing eyes.
*”Who are you?”* he demanded. *”What are you doing here?”*
*”I—I came to see my mum,”* she stammered, still shaky. *”I’m not a burglar. This is my house.”*
*”Right… You weren’t answering. I got worried.”*
*”I fell asleep after travelling.”* She steadied her breathing.
*”You missed your mum’s funeral. They tried calling—”*
*”I was in hospital. My husband and I crashed… He didn’t make it.”*
*”Sorry to hear that.”* His gaze softened. *”I’m sort of the village watchman. Police are miles off, and with folks moving away, empty houses… I live two doors down if you need anything.”*
*”James?”* she asked—though this man was too young. Her childhood friend James had died years ago; her mum had told her… *Mum*. Fresh tears welled.
*”No, I’m Rob. Served with James. He saved my life. Anyway, I’ll leave you be.”*
*”James was shorter. Why did I even ask?”* she thought, closing the door.
She fetched water from the pump—needed tea, needed to wash.
Next day, old Tom stopped by.
*”So it’s true—Emma’s back! Alone, then? Heard you’d married money. Why’d you miss your mum’s funeral?”*
She explained.
*”Blimey. Even the rich kick the bucket, eh? Can’t buy life,”* he mused.
*”He wasn’t rich. What gave you that idea?”*
*”Your mum said. Flat in town, car…”*
*”To her, anyone in London was rich,”* Emma sighed.
*”Good you’re back. Country air heals the soul. Cities—noisy, dirty, full of…”* He scratched his head. *”Chancers. But you’re pretty—you’ll find another bloke easy, ‘specially with a car and flat.”*
The conversation was veering uncomfortably.
*”What, proposing, Tom? You’ve got Mabel,”* she joked.
*”Might fancy a harem. Why not? I’ve still got it.”*
Emma laughed—until Mabel’s voice cut in:
*”Having fun?* You *never stop chatting. And* you—*here to turn our men’s heads?”* She marched Tom away.
At the shop next day, whispers followed Emma. When her turn came, the cosmetics-caked cashier, Linda, smirked.
*”No bread left.”*
*”But it’s right there!”*
*”Reserved for regulars,”* Linda sneered.
Rob strode in. Instantly, Linda simpered, batting blue-shadowed eyelids. The gossips hushed.
*”She won’t sell to me,”* Emma said.
Rob fixed Linda with a look. *”Two loaves, please. Anything else?”* he asked Emma.
She shook her head.
*”Sunflower oil too.”* He paid, handing Emma her share.
*”Not on, Linda. She’s local—just been away,”* he admonished.
*”Don’t order me about. Found yourself a damsel to rescue?”* Linda spat.
*”Not rescuing. Just won’t let anyone be treated like dirt.”*
Outside, Emma tried to pay him back.
*”Keep it. Why’d you leave London?”*
She told him.
*”Fair enough. I’m here on borrowed time too. Got discharged, came home—wife found someone richer. Gave her the flat, crashed with James’s mum. Owed him my life. Stayed to help. When she died, I stuck around. Village needs muscle—kids steer clear, old folks feel safer.”*
By the time they reached her gate, dusk had fallen.
A week later,Emma looked at Rob in the golden light of the setting sun, his beard gone but the kindness still in his eyes, and she knew—somehow, after all the loss and pain, love had found her again when she least expected it.
