**May 15 – Not Like the Films, But Close**
Olivia adored romantic films and dreamed her life might mirror the big screen—where everything ended happily. But dreams remained dreams, and reality in her tiny village in Yorkshire rolled by in dull monotony.
She married Alex thinking it was love. But Alex, a restless soul since youth, never changed. He brought her to his crumbling cottage, and three years later announced:
“Off to London. Do as you please. Too cramped here—my soul needs air.”
“Alex, what’re you on about? We’re fine,” Olivia stammered, bewildered.
“*You’re* fine. I’m not.”
With that, he snatched his passport and a tatty rucksack and left. The village buzzed with whispers:
“Alex ditched Olivia. Bet there’s another in the city.”
Olivia never wept or complained. She stayed in his house—nowhere else to go. Her sister’s family crammed into her parents’ place. No children of her own, either.
“Suppose God knew Alex wasn’t father material,” she mused, watching neighbours’ kids play.
Each evening, after chores, she’d sink into the sofa, losing herself in telly dramas where passions flared and lives shattered. She’d soak it all in, then toss in bed, restless.
Mornings began with feeding the pigs, chickens, and her beloved calf, Bertie—never let him graze with the herd.
“Olivia!” a neighbour shouted. “Bertie’s loose, tearing through the lane!”
She bolted outside. Bertie was butting a fence, testing his new horns.
“Bertie, here,” she coaxed, offering bread. He shook his head. “Bloody hell!” she snapped. Bertie dashed off, scattering geese.
She’d have chased him all day if not for Eddie, the local mechanic. He grabbed the rope, hauled Bertie back, and tied him firm. Olivia stared at his rough hands, the muscles under his worn shirt. A sudden ache rose—wanting those arms round her.
She shoved the thought aside.
“Acting like a lovestruck girl,” she scolded herself.
Eddie was just a schoolmate—that ginger, grinning lad who lived next door with Nina, a sturdy woman. Not for her.
“Never fancied him before,” she thought, looking away.
She divorced Alex quick after he fled. Suitors came, even proposed, but none stirred her. She lived alone, unloved.
Eddie wiped his hands on grass.
“Come in, wash up proper,” she blurted.
He followed silently. She felt his gaze on her back.
Later, she noticed his looks had changed—lingering, meaningful. Something flickered between them. Eddie started taking detours past her gate. Olivia rose early to weed the garden (“for the cool air,” she lied). But she knew: she waited for him. Their eyes would meet, his brimming with warmth.
She dreaded Nina’s wrath—”She’ll brand me a hussy”—but Eddie kept coming. His glances burned; hers softened. It felt like a telly romance—no clear ending.
One day, as she swept the yard—
“Hello, Liv,” came a voice. Alex’s old nickname for her.
She turned. Her ex stood there: same cocky smirk, stubble, those piercing blue eyes.
“Back for good. Take me in?”
“London didn’t pan out, then?”
Her heart didn’t falter. Any love had burned out when he left chasing “better things.”
Alex reclaimed his house. Olivia, with no options, let him. Nights, she barricaded her door with a wardrobe. Alex holed up elsewhere, vanishing with mates.
Eddie grew sullen. Then, spotting Olivia climbing out her window, something snapped in him:
“So she’s not let him back in.”
Next morning, stepping onto a makeshift wooden block beneath her window, Olivia frowned.
“Who—? Not Alex. He’s never here.”
Eddie had built it in the night. Unmarried to Nina, he’d stayed years, raising her lass from a past fling. Nina had moved in after a pub night, never left.
Winter came. Alex, broke and unwelcome at the pub, slunk back to London. Olivia breathed easy. Then disaster struck Eddie—Nina fell ill. The robust woman withered fast. Her mother took the girl; Eddie nursed Nina till the ambulance came. She never returned.
The village buried Nina with kind words:
“Stubborn, but soft-hearted. Never held a grudge,” old Margery sighed.
Eddie stayed alone. Mornings, Olivia watched him shovel snow by her gate, stealing glances at her windows.
Come spring, she returned from work to find her door ajar. A stout woman sat in *her* kitchen, sipping tea from *her* mug, slathering *her* jam on toast.
“Miss me?” Alex smirked. “Me and Tracey are settling in. My house, remember?” Spite laced his words. “My soon-to-be wife. Pack your things if our happiness offends you.”
Tracey cackled. Olivia planned to leave at dawn, shoving the wardrobe again.
“Lord, why?” she whispered. “Aunt Mabel’s spare room, maybe…”
Morning came. As she hauled bags out, Eddie appeared. Silent, he took them, carting everything to his place. Alex and Tracey exchanged smirks.
“What’s this, then? Lovebirds?” Alex sneered. “Eddie hauling your rags like some lovesick pup.”
Eddie gripped Olivia’s hand and led her away.
“While I was gone, eh?” Alex muttered. Tracey elbowed him quiet.
Inside, Olivia sobbed—relief, joy, everything. Eddie lifted her. The ceiling spun as they clung, giddy.
They married swiftly. A baby’s due soon. Alex glowers from next door, but Olivia doesn’t care. Behind her stands Eddie—her steady wall.
**Lesson learnt:** Life’s no film, but sometimes, if you wait, the right scene finds you.
