Emily had always loved TV dramas, dreaming her life could be as perfect as the ones on screen. But dreams were just dreams—reality was duller, quieter, and far less exciting.
She’d married Michael believing it was love, though she’d been wrong. Michael had always been restless, even as a boy, and marriage didn’t change him. He brought her to his small cottage in the countryside, and for three years, life plodded on—until the day he announced, “I’m leaving. Off to London. Can’t breathe in this village anymore. My soul needs something bigger.”
Emily stared, bewildered. “But—why? We’re happy, aren’t we?”
“*You* are.” With that, he grabbed his passport and a battered old suitcase, stuffing his few belongings inside.
The village buzzed with gossip—women whispering over fences, certain Michael had found a London fling. Emily bore it silently. She had nowhere else to go. Her brother’s family crowded her childhood home, and she’d never had children. “Maybe God knew Michael would’ve been a useless father,” she mused, watching village children play.
Evenings, she’d finish her chores and lose herself in TV dramas—betrayals, passions, grand declarations—letting them stir emotions she’d never felt in real life. Sleep never came easy.
Each morning, she fed the pigs, geese, and chickens, then tethered her young bull, Toby, by the garden, refusing to send him with the herd. One day, her neighbour called, “Emily! Toby’s loose—he’s tearing through the village!”
She rushed out to find Toby ramming a fence, his budding horns snagging the neighbour’s pickets. “Toby, *please*,” she coaxed, offering bread. But he tossed his head defiantly. “Oh, *blast you*!” she snapped.
Toby bolted, scattering a flock of ducks. She might’ve chased him forever if not for George, the tractor driver. He seized the frayed rope, muscles flexing through his dirt-streaked shirt, and hauled Toby back.
Emily stared at his strong hands. A sudden, shameful thought struck her—*what if he pulled me close instead?*
She shook it off. “What’s *wrong* with me?”
George wiped his hands on the grass. “Come inside. Wash up,” she said, feeling his gaze burn into her back.
He rinsed his hands under the tap, dried them, then gave her a lingering look before leaving. But something had shifted. Now, whenever he passed, her cheeks flushed. He began taking the long way to work—past her garden, where she *just happened* to be weeding each morning.
She tried to dismiss the sinful thoughts. And she feared his live-in girlfriend, Zoe—a towering woman who’d moved in after a village festival where George drank too much. They weren’t married, but Zoe had stayed, bringing her daughter from a previous man.
One evening, as Emily swept her yard, a familiar voice called, “*Emily, love*.”
She spun. Michael stood there—same cocky grin, same brown eyes that once made her heart flutter. Now, nothing.
“Back for good. Take me in?”
Her chest stayed cold. No love left. But the cottage was his. She had no choice.
That night, she barricaded her bedroom door with a heavy dresser.
Meanwhile, George kept circling her house, mood dark—until he saw her climbing out the *window*.
“So she *didn’t* take him back.”
The next morning, she found wooden steps beneath her window. “*Who—?*” Not Michael—he was always out drinking.
George had built them.
Winter came. Michael’s money ran out, and the village shunned him. He left for London again.
Then Zoe fell ill. Her mother took the child, and George cared for her—until the hospital took her. She never came home.
The village mourned. “Big woman, but gentle,” they said.
George stayed alone. Yet every morning, Emily watched him shovel her path clear of snow before work, stealing glances at her window.
Spring arrived. One day, Emily returned home to find the door wide open. A plump woman sat at *her* table, drinking tea from *her* cup.
Michael smirked. “Surprise. Veronica and I are moving in. *My* house. Pack your things—unless you want to watch us happy.”
That night, Emily barricaded herself again. “God, how much more must I endure?”
At dawn, she carried her belongings outside. George appeared, wordlessly hauling them to *his* home. Michael watched, sneering. “What’s this, *love*? Didn’t know you two were *close*.”
George took Emily’s hand and led her away.
Inside, she burst into tears—relief? Shock? He lifted her, spinning her until the room blurred.
They married swiftly. A child was coming.
Michael lingered outside his cottage, squinting after Emily. But what did she care now?
Behind her stood George—the man she’d waited for all along.
