Not quite like the movies, but close
Emma adored rom-coms and dreamed of her life mirroring those picture-perfect stories where everything wraps up with a happy ending. But dreams stayed dreams, while reality dragged on—grey and monotonous—in a tiny village tucked away in the Yorkshire Dales.
She’d married Jack, convinced it was love. But Jack, flighty and restless since his teens, never changed. He brought her to his crumbling cottage, and three years later, announced:
“I’m off to London. Do what you like. This place stifles me—I need my freedom.”
“Jack, what d’you mean? We’re fine here,” Emma faltered, baffled.
*You* might be fine. I’m not.”
With that, he grabbed his passport and a tattered rucksack and left. The village buzzed with gossip. Neighbours whispered:
“Jack’s ditched Emma, gone to the city. Probably found some glamorous London girl.”
Emma stayed quiet. No tears, no complaints. She carried on in Jack’s house—now hers. Nowhere else to go: her parents’ place was crammed with her sister’s family. No room. And no children of her own.
“Guess God decided Jack wasn’t father material,” she’d think, watching the neighbour’s kids play.
Every night, after chores, she’d curl up with TV dramas—soap operas full of passion and heartbreak. She absorbed every plot twist, then tossed and turned, sleepless.
Mornings began with routine: feed the pig, the chickens, the calf, Benny—tied by the garden since she wouldn’t let him roam with the herd.
“Emma!” a neighbour shouted. “Benny’s loose—charging through the village!”
“Where?” She dashed out. The calf was butting a fence, testing his new horns.
“Benny, come *on*,” she coaxed, holding out bread. He shook his head. “Oh, for—*Benny!*” she snapped. The calf bolted, scattering a flock of geese.
She might’ve chased him forever if not for Tom, the mechanic. He snagged the rope, tugged Benny to the fence, and tied him fast. Emma noticed his strong arms, the muscles under his faded flannel. A sudden warmth bloomed in her chest—what if those arms held *her*?
She shoved the thought away.
“What’s wrong with me? Acting like a schoolgirl.”
Embarrassed, she glanced off. Tom was her old classmate—a ginger, always grinning joker. Lived next door with Diane, a sturdy woman. Not her business.
“Never felt like this before,” she mused.
She’d divorced Jack the moment he left. There’d been suitors, even proposals, but none felt right. Alone, untouched by love.
Tom wiped his hands on the grass. Emma blurted, “Come inside—wash up.”
He followed silently. She felt his gaze on her back.
Later, she caught him looking at her differently—a spark in his eyes.
“What’s *with* him?”
He dried his hands, gave her a lingering look, and left.
After that, an unspoken thread tied them. Emma flushed when Tom passed by. He started cutting through her yard—never had before. She rose early to weed the garden, telling herself it was for the cool air. But she knew: she was waiting for him. Their glances locked, his brimming with something real.
She dismissed it, fearing Diane’s wrath.
“If she finds out—village scandal.”
But Tom kept coming, his gaze burning. Emma met it with soft eyes and half-smiles. Their story felt like a telly drama—no ending in sight.
One afternoon, she swept the yard when a voice rang out:
“Hello, Em.” Only Jack called her that.
She turned. Her ex stood there—same cocky smirk, stubble, blue eyes squinting.
“Back for good. You’ll have me?”
“London didn’t work out, then?”
Her heart stayed still. No love left—just ashes. The door in her soul had slammed when he left chasing “something better.”
Jack moved back into his half of the house. With nowhere else, Emma let him. Nights, she barricaded her door with a dresser. Jack barely stayed home, out with mates.
Tom grew sullen. Then one evening, he spotted Emma climbing out her window—realisation struck.
“She *hasn’t* taken him back.”
Next morning, Emma found two rough planks nailed beneath her window—a step.
“Who—?” Not Jack. He couldn’t be bothered.
Tom had done it in secret. He and Diane weren’t married—just lived together years. No kids, but he’d cared for her daughter from a past relationship. Diane had moved in after a pub night, stayed, brought her girl along.
Winter came. Jack ran out of cash—no free pints in the village—and vanished back to London. Emma breathed easier. Then Tom’s life cracked: Diane fell ill. The robust woman withered fast. Her mum took the girl; Tom nursed Diane till the ambulance came. She never returned.
The village buried Diane with kind words.
“Big-hearted, she was. Never held a grudge,” old Mrs. Higgins sighed.
Tom was alone now. Mornings, Emma watched him shovel snow near her house, stealing glances at her windows.
Spring afternoon, Emma returned from work to her door swung wide. A stout woman sat at her table, sipping tea from *her* mug, spooning *her* jam.
“Surprise,” Jack drawled. “Me and Tracey are moving in. *My* house.” Payback for her rejection. “My future wife. Pack your stuff—clear out if you can’t stand our happiness.”
Tracey cackled. Emma decided to leave at dawn. Again, the dresser barricaded her door.
“Lord, why?” she whispered. “Maybe Aunt Clara’s spare room…”
Morning came. As she hauled bags out, Tom appeared. Wordlessly, he took them—carried everything to his place. Emma stayed silent. Jack and Tracey exchanged smirks.
“What’s this, then? You and *Dave*?” Jack scoffed. (He’d always mocked Tom’s real name.) “Playing house?”
Tom clasped Emma’s hand and led her away.
“Proper drama while I was gone,” Jack muttered. Tracey elbowed him quiet.
Inside Tom’s cottage, Emma sobbed—relief, joy, everything. He lifted her, spun her. The ceiling whirled; they were dizzy with happiness.
They married quickly. A baby’s due soon. Jack watches from his garden, but Emma doesn’t care. Behind her stands Tom—her solid ground.
