**Wednesday, 12th May**
I always loved telly dramas—the way they made life seem brighter, full of twists and grand emotions, all leading to that perfect happy ending. But my own story felt grey, dull, and utterly lifeless. I lived in a small village near York, and even marriage hadn’t brought the joy I’d dreamt of as a girl.
Liam, my husband, had seemed kind and steady at first. Then, three years in, he dropped it on me out of nowhere:
“I’m leaving. I can’t stay here another day. It’s suffocating. I belong in London, Emily.”
“What d’you mean? We’ve got a good thing here,” I tried to argue.
“You might think so. I don’t.” And just like that, he stuffed a few shirts into an old rucksack and walked out without a backward glance.
The village gossips had a field day.
“Liam’s run off to Leeds,” they whispered. “Probably found himself some city woman.”
I didn’t cry. Didn’t complain. Just carried on. There was no room for me at my parents’—my brother and his wife had filled every inch with their four kids. I had none of my own.
“Maybe it’s a blessing,” I thought, watching the neighbours’ children play. “A man like Liam would’ve made a rotten father.”
Evenings were my escape. I’d sit glued to the telly, lost in the dramas—betrayals, grand romances, heartbreaks. Those stories left me restless, staring at the ceiling long after the credits rolled.
Then came the mornings—same old grind. Feeding the pigs, geese, chickens, and that blasted calf, Charlie. Not even in a proper pen—I had to tether him myself. One day, the neighbour squawked, “Emily! Your calf’s loose, tearing through the village!”
I dashed outside to find Charlie butting the fence, horns gouging the neighbour’s gate.
“Charlie, stop it—please!” I pleaded, waving a crust of bread. He just tossed his head and bolted, sending ducks scattering.
As always, Tom—the farmer, my old schoolmate—saved the day. He caught Charlie, wrapped the rope tight, and secured him. I watched his hands—strong, skilled, muscles shifting under his worn shirt—and something pricked at my chest. A foolish ache for those arms around me.
“Honestly, what’s wrong with me?” I flushed. “Like a cat in heat.”
I was ashamed. Tom lived with Linda, a tall, broad woman who’d muscled her way into his life after a pub night when he’d had one too many. She’d brought her daughter from a past marriage and never left.
After Liam vanished, I divorced him quick. Other men came along, even proposed, but my heart stayed silent. Then there was Tom—suddenly looking at me differently, warmth creeping into his gaze. I felt it like a brand. And I was terrified Linda would notice, spread it round the village.
But Tom started walking past my place every day, along the footpath he’d never used before. I’d rise early, pretending to weed the garden—really just waiting for his footsteps. Our eyes would meet, and his held something Liam’s never had—tenderness.
Then Liam came back. Like he’d never left.
“Take me in?” he asked, that same smirk on his face.
“Why didn’t London work out?”
But my heart didn’t leap. Didn’t flutter. Maybe there was never any love. Or maybe it had just withered long ago.
He moved back in—I couldn’t legally kick him out, but he didn’t act like a husband. Nights, I barricaded my door with the dresser, climbed in through the window. Tom saw. Understood.
One morning, steps appeared beneath my window—someone had built them for me. Not Liam. He still came and went as he pleased. It was Tom who’d nailed those steps together in the dark.
Then Linda came back. But she fell ill—fast, serious. Her mum took the daughter; Linda went to hospital. She never came home.
After that, I’d catch Tom shovelling snow not just from his own path, but mine too. Secretly. Come spring, I returned from work one afternoon to find my door wide open, a heavyset woman sipping tea from my mug.
“Alright, love,” Liam grinned. “Me and Sharon live here now. House is mine. Pack your things.”
That night, I shoved the dresser against the door again. In the morning, I started hauling my things out. Tom came over, wordlessly took my suitcase, carried it to his place. Then came back. Again and again. No questions—just taking what was mine. Liam and Sharon watched, exchanging glances.
“This your idea of love?” Liam sneered. “Good luck.”
Tom reached for my hand. Led me away. I burst into tears—relief, shock, happiness, who knew? He pulled me close, and the whole world spun.
We married fast. Now I’m pregnant. Liam stood in the doorway, watching us go, uneasy. But I didn’t care. Behind me stood a real man. Not in some telly drama. In real life.
