The Sofa “Dream”
Thomas and Emma had been together for two years. Emma would stay over at Thomas’s whenever his mum went to visit a friend in Manchester or spent weekends at her countryside cottage. They cherished those fleeting moments. But summer had ended. September still clung to the last warmth of the sun, yet the downpours were coming, and Thomas’s mother no longer escaped to the cottage every weekend. Now they could only wait for her rare trips to Manchester.
The couple grew restless.
“Thomas, don’t you love me?” Emma’s voice trembled. “Don’t you want to be with me, through thick and thin?” Her words carried a quiet plea—it was time to think about marriage.
They stood outside her house, unable to part for half an hour.
“What makes you say that?” Thomas stepped back, searching her eyes. “I’d marry you tomorrow if I could, but where would we live? I can’t afford rent yet, and you’ve got another year of uni. Unless you want to move in with me and my mum. Living with your parents isn’t an option either—their flat’s too small. Let’s just wait. Once you graduate—”
“But I can’t keep saying goodbye to you every night, waiting for your mum to leave. My parents keep asking why you haven’t proposed.” Emma inhaled sharply, but instead of a sigh, a sob escaped.
“Em, I promise I’ll figure something out. I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” she echoed.
“Alright, come on.” Thomas took her hand firmly.
“Where?”
“To your place. I’ll ask your parents for your hand. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
“Let’s go!” Emma brightened.
Hand in hand, they stepped inside.
“Come in, you two,” her mother greeted warmly.
The kitchen table was already set with four cups, biscuits, and sweets—as if they’d been expected.
“I saw you through the window,” her mother smiled, catching Emma’s surprised glance. “Half an hour saying goodbye. Enough wandering the streets—winter’s coming. And yes, we know you sleep together.” Emma’s cheeks burned. “Your father and I have no objections to you marrying.”
“We won’t ask you to live with us,” her father added. “We understand you’d want your own place. A colleague’s selling a one-bed flat. I thought of you two straightaway.”
“Thanks, Dad!” Emma beamed.
“Don’t celebrate yet.” Her father eyed Thomas. “You’ve gone all quiet.”
Thomas met his gaze squarely.
“You’re not wealthy. I can’t accept such a gift. I’m fit and able—I’ll earn our home myself.”
“What’s there to be ashamed of?” Her father frowned slightly. “We’re buying it, not nicking it. Who else should we help but our children? This flat came from my parents. Now it’s our turn to give you a start. You’ll earn a bigger place later. And it’s not for you—it’s for her, so she’s happy. And she’s happy with you. Too proud, aren’t you?” His stern look softened as it landed on Emma, then hardened again at Thomas.
Emma squeezed Thomas’s hand under the table—don’t argue, just agree.
“Thank you,” Thomas muttered.
A week before the wedding. The white dress bought, invitations sent, the restaurant booked.
“Tom, we don’t have a sofa,” Emma said—already calling the flat “ours.” “What’ll we sleep on? The floor?”
“Not a chance. We’ll buy one.”
“When?” Emma pointed out.
So they went to a furniture shop, weaving between rows of sofas, testing each. Emma sat, eyes closed, until she found one—plain, unassuming, but perfect.
“Lovely choice,” a saleswoman chimed. “Last one left. Try it, love,” she urged Thomas.
He sat beside Emma, who immediately curled into him.
“Newlyweds?”
“Next week,” Emma grinned.
“Congratulations. A fine way to start—with a good sofa. Comfy?”
“Mm. DonThey stayed there for years, through laughter and tears, until the sofa—like their love—softened with age but never lost its shape.
