**Diary Entry**
It’s not quite like the telly, but close enough. Mary loved her soap operas and dreamed of a life as perfect as the ones on screen. But dreams were just that—dreams. Reality was simpler, duller, and her days passed quietly, uneventfully.
She’d married Mike thinking it was love—or so she’d convinced herself. But Mike had always been restless, even as a boy, and that hadn’t changed. He brought her to his small cottage in the countryside, and after three years of marriage, he announced,
“I’m off to London. Stay if you like, but I can’t breathe here. My soul needs more than this.”
“Mike, what’s got into you?” she’d tried to reason, baffled. “Everything’s fine between us.”
“Fine for you, maybe.”
With that, he grabbed his passport and the few belongings that fit into an old duffel bag, and left. The village gossip spread like wildfire. The women whispered at every corner, “Mike’s gone and left Mary for some city floozy.”
Mary bore it all in silence—no tears, no complaints. She stayed in Mike’s cottage because where else could she go? Her brother’s crowded house had no room for her. And she’d never had a child.
“Suppose God knew Mike would make a rotten father,” she mused, watching the village children play.
Every evening, after her chores, Mary curled up in front of the telly, losing herself in the dramas—betrayals, passions, all of it. She’d lie awake long after, restless.
Mornings meant feeding the pigs, geese, and chickens, then tying young Bertie the bullock by the garden. She never let him loose with the herd.
“Mary!” her neighbour called one day. “Bertie’s got loose—charging about the lane!”
She dashed outside to find him butting his newly sprouted horns against the neighbour’s fence.
“Bertie, here now,” she coaxed, offering a crust of bread. He tossed his head defiantly. “Oh, blast you!” she snapped.
Bertie bolted, scattering a flock of ducks. She might’ve chased him all day if Tom the tractor driver hadn’t caught the trailing rope and hauled him back. Mary watched his rough hands, the muscles straining through his grubby shirt. A sudden, sharp longing seized her—to be held by those strong arms.
She shook it off at once.
“What’s got into me? Like a cat begging for affection.”
She’d never fancied Tom—her old schoolmate, always laughing, teasing. And he was taken anyway, living with that strapping Zoe next door. Mary looked away, flustered.
She’d divorced Mike as soon as he bolted for city life. There’d been suitors since, even proposals, but none stirred her heart. So she stayed alone, unloved.
Tom wiped his hands on the grass.
“Come inside,” she said. “You can wash up.”
He followed silently, his gaze burning into her back.
She caught him looking at her differently and frowned. “What’s all this about?” But he dried his hands on the towel, gave her one last lingering look, and left.
From then on, an invisible thread seemed to stretch between them. Mary flushed whenever Tom passed. He started taking the long way to work, cutting across the field by her cottage—never used to go that way before. She rose early now, weeding the garden “for the morning air,” though she knew it was for the chance to see him. Their eyes met, and in his sly grin, she saw something real—admiration, perhaps.
She pushed the thoughts away. And she feared Zoe.
“God help me if she finds out,” Mary fretted. “She’ll have the whole village talking.”
But Tom kept walking past, his gaze smouldering. She smiled back, soft and shy. It felt like her soaps—*EastEnders*, maybe—endless twists, no resolution in sight.
One day, as she swept the yard, a familiar voice called, “Hello, Mary-love.”
She spun around. Mike stood there, that same cocky smirk, unshaven stubble.
“I’m back. Take me in?”
Her heart didn’t so much as twitch. Funny—no love left, if there ever had been. The door had closed the day he left without her.
Mike reclaimed his cottage. Mary had nowhere else, so she let him stay. At night, she barricaded her bedroom door with a heavy dresser. Mike took the other room, coming and going at odd hours.
Tom kept walking past, brooding. Then one morning, he saw Mary climbing out the window. A fierce hope flared in him.
“So she didn’t take him back.”
Next day, stepping out, Mary found a little wooden stair beneath the sill.
“Who’d do this?” Certainly not Mike—too busy celebrating his return with mates.
Tom had built it for her late at night. He wasn’t wed to Zoe—just living together. She was older, with a daughter from a past marriage. Tom was kind to the girl, but Zoe had moved in after a village fete where he’d had too much ale. She’d walked him home and never left.
Winter came. Mike’s money ran out, and with no one left to mooch off, he slunk back to London. Mary breathed freely again. Then Zoe fell ill—strong as an ox one day, bedridden the next. The village rallied, but she died in hospital.
At the funeral, they spoke well of her.
“Big as she was, Zoe never caused trouble,” old Annie said. “Always friendly.”
Tom stayed alone after that. Mary often spied him shovelling her path after his own, stealing glances at her windows.
Spring arrived. One evening, Mary came home to find her door wide open. A stout woman sat at her table, sipping tea from her favourite mug.
“Didn’t expect us, eh?” Mike gloated. “We’re moving in—me and Veronica here. My house, after all.”
Revenge, then, for her refusal.
“My soon-to-be wife,” Mike added. “Pack your things if you can’t bear to watch our happiness.”
Mary spent the night barricaded again.
“Lord,” she prayed, “how much longer? Maybe Mrs. Dawson would take me in—she’s got the space.”
At dawn, she began hauling her things outside. Tom appeared, wordlessly carried an armful to his house, then returned for more. Mike and Veronica watched, smirking.
“What’s this, then?” Mike sneered. “You and Tom, is it? Didn’t see that coming.”
Tom took Mary’s hand and led her away.
“Well, well,” Mike muttered. “Thought she’d be pining for me. Quite the twist.” Veronica elbowed him silent.
Inside Tom’s home, Mary burst into tears—relief, shock, she wasn’t sure. He lifted her off her feet, and the room spun. They’d found each other at last.
They married quickly, a baby already on the way. Mike lingered outside his cottage sometimes, watching Mary, troubled. But what did she care? Behind her now stood Tom—steady, strong. The man she’d waited for all along.
