Not Quite Like the Soaps, But Close
Emma adored soap operas and dreamed of her life being as perfect as on the screen. But those were just dreams—reality was far simpler, and dreams stayed dreams while her days passed quietly and without excitement.
She married Michael, thinking it was for love—or so she believed. But Michael had always been unreliable, never settling down, and that didn’t change after marriage. He brought her to his small cottage in the village, and after three years, he announced:
“I’m off to the city. You do what you like. This village is too cramped for me—my spirit needs something bigger.”
“Michael, what’s brought this on? Everything’s been fine,” she tried, confused.
“Fine for *you*,” he muttered.
With that, he grabbed his passport and a few belongings crammed into an old duffel bag, then left. The village buzzed with gossip at once—women whispering at every corner.
“Michael’s left Emma behind for some city fling, no doubt.”
Emma bore it all in silence. No tears, no complaints. She simply carried on in Michael’s house—now hers by default. She had nowhere else to go. Her parents’ home was packed with her brother’s family, and she’d never had a child.
“Maybe God knew Michael would’ve made a useless father,” she thought, watching the village children play.
Each evening after chores, Emma settled in front of the telly, lost in soap operas full of drama and betrayal. She took every scene to heart, lying awake long after.
Mornings were for feeding the pigs, geese, chickens, and the young bull, Toby. He stayed tethered by the field—she never sent him with the herd.
“Emma!” her neighbour called. “Toby’s loose—look, he’s tearing through the village!”
She darted out just in time to see Toby attacking a fence with his new horns.
“Toby, Toby,” she coaxed, waving bread. He tossed his head defiantly. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she snapped. The bull bolted, scattering ducks and ducklings.
She might’ve chased him forever if not for George, the tractor driver. He grabbed the frayed rope, pulled hard, and tied Toby to the fence. Emma stared at his rough hands, his strong arms under a dirty shirt. A sudden, wild thought—*What if he held me like that?*—flashed before she shook it off.
“Honestly, where did *that* come from?” she scolded herself, cheeks burning.
She and Michael divorced the moment he fled for city glamour. Suitors had come, even proposed, but none felt right. So she stayed alone, untouched by love.
George wiped his hands on the grass.
“Come inside—wash up,” she said. He followed, his gaze hot on her back.
She noticed then—the way he looked at her. Different. *Why?* she wondered. He dried his hands, gave her one last lingering glance, then left.
But something had shifted. An invisible thread now tied them. Emma flushed when George passed by. He detoured past her cottage at dawn, though he never had before.
She rose early, too—to weed, she told herself, but really for *him*. Their eyes met each morning, and in his playful stare, she saw real interest—maybe even adoration.
She shut down the guilty thoughts, fearing Zoe, his live-in girlfriend.
“If Zoe sees, she’ll make my life hell—and the whole village will know.”
Yet George kept walking by, his looks burning. Emma softened, smiling back. It felt like *EastEnders*—messy, uncertain, with no end in sight.
One day, sweeping the yard, she heard, “Hello, Emma love.”
She spun around—*Michael*. Same cocky grin, same stubble, same eyes that once made her heart race. Now? Nothing.
“I’m back. Take me in?”
“Why? City not good enough?”
No flutter in her chest. No love left. Her door was shut forever when he’d left without her.
Michael moved back into his house—she couldn’t refuse. At night, Emma barricaded her bedroom with a heavy dresser. He slept in the other half of the house, barely home.
George paced, brooding—until he saw her climbing out the window.
“So she *didn’t* take him back.”
The next morning, she found two wooden steps beneath the window.
“Who did this? Not Michael—he’s too busy drinking with mates.”
George had built them, sneaking over at night. He wasn’t married to Zoe—they’d lived together years. She was older, with a daughter from a failed marriage.
Zoe had moved in after a village festival. George had drunk too much; she’d “helped” him home and stayed.
Winter came. Michael’s money ran out, and the village stopped feeding him—so he fled to the city again. Emma breathed freely.
Then Zoe fell ill—strong, healthy Zoe, suddenly bedridden. Her mother took the girl; George did his best, but Zoe was rushed to hospital and never returned.
The village buried her kindly.
“Big woman, but gentle. Never caused trouble,” old Agnes said.
George lived alone now. Yet every morning, Emma glanced out to see him shovelling her path. His own first, then hers—always glancing up at her window.
Spring arrived. One evening, Emma returned to find her door wide open. Inside, a stout woman sat at *her* table, drinking from *her* mug.
“Surprise,” Michael sneered. “Me and Veronica are moving in. *My* house, remember?”—his revenge for her refusal. “We’ll wed soon. Pack your things—unless you want front-row seats to our happiness.” He winked; Veronica cackled.
That night, Emma shoved the dresser against her door again.
“Lord,” she prayed, “how much more must I endure?” Maybe kind Edna would take her in.
At dawn, she hauled her things out. George appeared, wordlessly carried them to his cottage, then returned for more. Michael and Veronica watched, baffled.
“What’s this—love?” Michael jeered. “Never noticed *this* before.”
George took Emma’s hand and led her home.
“Well,” Michael muttered. “Seems I was wrong—she wasn’t pining for me after all.” Veronica’s fist shut him up.
Inside, Emma burst into tears—relief? shock?—as George lifted her. The ceiling spun; they were both dizzy with happiness. They’d found each other at last.
They married quickly, a baby soon on the way. Michael lingered outside his house, squinting after Emma, but she no longer cared. Behind her now stood George—strong, steady, and worth the wait.
