Alright, so let me tell you this story in a way that feels like it could’ve happened in a little village up in Yorkshire or somewhere like that.
Molly absolutely adored romantic dramas and dreamed of her life being just like the ones on telly—where everything ends happily ever after. But dreams stayed dreams, and reality was just dull and monotonous in her tiny cottage up in the Lake District.
She married Jack, thinking it was love. But Jack, flighty and unreliable since he was a lad, never changed. He brought her back to his crumbling old house, and three years later, announced:
“I’m off to the city. You do what you like. This place is suffocating me—I need my freedom.”
“Jack, what’re you on about? We’re all right, aren’t we?” Molly stammered, completely lost.
“*You* might be all right. I’m not.”
And with that, he left, taking his passport and a worn-out rucksack stuffed with his things. The village buzzed with gossip, the neighbours whispering:
“Jack’s gone and abandoned Molly, run off to the city. Bet there’s another woman.”
Molly stayed quiet. She didn’t cry, didn’t complain, just kept living in Jack’s house. Nowhere else to go—her sister’s family had taken over her parents’ place, no room left. No kids of her own, either.
“Guess the good Lord decided Jack wasn’t meant to be a father,” she thought, watching the neighbours’ children play.
Every night, after her chores, she’d sit in front of the telly, lost in soap operas full of passion and heartbreak. She soaked it all up, then tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep.
Mornings started with feeding the pig, the chickens, and her little calf, Bertie—she never let him out with the herd.
“Molly!” a neighbour shouted one day. “Your Bertie’s got loose—galloping round the village like mad!”
“Where?” She bolted out the gate. Bertie was headbutting the neighbour’s fence, his new little horns snagging on the wood.
“Bertie, Bertie,” she coaxed, holding out a piece of bread. The calf just shook his head. “Oh, for pity’s sake!” she snapped. Bertie bolted, scattering a flock of geese.
No telling how long she’d have chased him if not for Rob, the local mechanic. He grabbed the rope in one smooth motion, tugged Bertie back, and tied him to the fence. Molly stared at his strong arms, the muscles under his faded flannel shirt. For a second, she imagined those arms wrapping around her, holding her tight.
She shook the thought away.
“What’s got into me? Acting like some lovesick schoolgirl.”
Felt silly. Rob was an old classmate—ginger, always grinning, the village joker. Lived with Brenda, a sturdy woman, just down the lane. No business thinking of him like that.
“Never felt this way before,” she thought, looking away.
Divorced Jack quick after he ran off. A few other lads had come knocking, even proposed, but none of them felt right. Lived alone, unloved.
Rob wiped his hands on the grass, and Molly suddenly said, “Come in, wash up proper.”
He followed her without a word. She could feel his eyes on her back.
Noticed he was looking at her different now—what was *that* about?
He washed his hands, dried them on the towel, gave her a long, searching look, then left. After that, something shifted. Whenever Rob passed by, Molly went pink. He started cutting through her yard, though he never used to. She began waking early, weeding the garden in the cool morning air—at least, that’s what she told herself. Really, she was waiting to catch a glimpse of him. Their eyes would meet, and his burned with something real—almost like worship.
She shoved the thoughts away, scared of Brenda.
“If she catches wind, she’ll have the whole village talking.”
But Rob kept coming, gaze smouldering. Molly offered soft looks and half-smiles in return. Felt like their story was one of those telly dramas—no clear ending, just simmering tension.
One day, sweeping the yard, she heard a familiar voice:
“Hello, Moll.” Jack used to call her that.
She turned. There he stood—same cocky smirk, same squint in his blue eyes, same stubble.
“Back, then. Expecting me to take you in?”
“City didn’t work out?”
Her heart didn’t so much as flutter. Whatever love she’d had had dried up long ago. The door in her heart slammed shut the day he left chasing “something better,” leaving her behind.
Jack moved back into his house. Molly had nowhere else, so she let him. Locked her bedroom door at night, shoved the wardrobe against it. Jack holed up in the other half. Barely home, always out with his mates.
Rob grew quiet. Then one evening, he saw Molly climbing out her window, and something in him snapped.
“So she hasn’t taken him back, then.”
Next morning, stepping onto the windowsill, she nearly tripped—someone had nailed two planks together as a step.
“Who did this?” Not Jack—he couldn’t be bothered.
Rob had done it in the night, so she’d have an easier climb. He and Brenda weren’t married—just lived together for years. No kids, but he’d looked after her daughter from a past relationship. Brenda had waltzed into his life after a pub night and never left, bringing the girl along.
Winter came. Jack ran out of money, the village stopped buying him pints, so off he went again. Molly breathed easier. Then disaster hit Rob—Brenda fell ill. Strong as she was, she wasted away fast. Her mother took the girl, Rob nursed her till the ambulance came, but Brenda never came home.
The whole village turned out for the funeral.
“Big woman, but kind,” old Martha sighed. “Never a cross word.”
Rob was alone now. Mornings, Molly would spot him shovelling snow by her house, glancing at her windows.
Spring arrived. Molly came home from work to find her front door wide open. A heavyset woman sat at her table, drinking tea from her favourite mug, spooning jam straight from the jar.
“Surprise,” Jack’s voice rang out. “Me and Tracey are moving in. My house, remember?” Pure spite, punishing her for rejecting him. “This is my future wife. Pack your things and clear out—if you can’t stand to see us happy.”
Tracey cackled. Molly decided to stay one last night, then leave at dawn. Shoved the wardrobe against the door again.
“Lord, what did I do to deserve this?” she whispered. “Could beg Aunt Mabel to take me in—she’s on her own…”
Next morning, hauling her things out, Rob appeared. Silently took her bags and carried them to his place. Made trip after trip. Molly stayed quiet. Jack and Tracey exchanged smirks.
“What’s this, then?” Jack sneered. “Found yourself a new bloke to carry your junk?”
Rob took Molly’s hand and led her home.
“Place got lively while I was away,” Jack muttered. Tracey smacked his arm, shutting him up.
Inside Rob’s cottage, Molly burst into tears—relief, joy, everything. He held her, lifted her right off her feet. The ceiling spun, and suddenly, they were just *happy*.
They married fast, a baby on the way now. Sometimes Molly caught Jack watching from his garden, but she didn’t care. Rob was behind her—her solid ground, her safe place.
