**No Wedding After All**
Emily finished teacher training college with top honours, dreaming of university. But fate had other plans. Her father was badly injured in an accident and spent months in hospital. When he was discharged, her mother took leave to care for him at home while he adjusted to life in a wheelchair.
Their small town had no university—she would have to move to the nearest city. Emily decided to wait another year. She couldn’t abandon her parents in their hardship. Instead, she took a job at the local school.
The doctors had given them hope—with physiotherapy, massage, and medication, her father might walk again. Her mother sold their cottage to pay for treatment, but he never rose from his chair.
“Enough,” he snapped one day. “Stop wasting money. I won’t walk again.”
His temper grew worse—prickly, suspicious, always finding fault. His sharpest words were for her mother. If he called, she had to drop everything. Usually, it was just to bring him water or chat, but supper would burn while she tended to him.
“James, you could wheel yourself to the kitchen. Now the potatoes are ruined,” her mother scolded.
“My whole life’s ruined, and you fret over potatoes! Easy for you—you’ve got two good legs. Can’t you fetch a glass of water?” He’d hurl a plate or glass in frustration.
More often now, he asked for whisky, and when he drank, his anger lashed out at her mother, as if she were to blame for the accident.
“Dad, don’t drink—it only makes things worse. Why not read or play chess?” Emily pleaded.
“What do you know? Trying to take my last pleasure? Books are all lies. My life’s over.”
“Mum, don’t buy him whisky anymore,” Emily begged.
“If I don’t, he’ll shout the house down. He’s suffering.”
“But drinking won’t help. The doctors said he could walk if he tried. He just enjoys tormenting us.”
She pitied him, but life was hard for them too. One evening, exhausted from school, her throat sore, she snapped when he called her yet again.
“Enough! I’m tired. You have a chair—wheel yourself to the kitchen if you’re thirsty. Other people manage worse and still work, even compete. You won’t even try.” And she walked away.
She heard the scrape of wheels, the clatter of a glass in the kitchen, then the chair pausing outside her door. She braced for a shouting match, but the sound moved on. After that, he grew more independent.
On warm days, she left the balcony door open so he could “take the air,” though the narrow doorway and step kept him from going further. Widening it would cost money they didn’t have.
“Put me in a home,” he’d mutter after drinking.
“Don’t say that,” her mother soothed. “You’re alive—that’s what matters.”
“You’ll tire of changing my bedpan. Pity’s no way to live. Why stay with a cripple?”
And so the year passed. Autumn returned, cold and wet. One day, Emily left school just as rain lashed down. She ducked under the bus shelter, but the spray from speeding cars soaked her anyway. She stood, shivering like a drenched sparrow.
Then a lorry stopped beside her. A young man hopped out, holding his jacket over his head.
“Jump in—I’ll take you home.”
She climbed into the warm, dry cab, breathing in the scent of oil and petrol.
“Michael,” he said.
“Emily.”
“Where to?”
She gave her address. Along the way, he explained why he’d become a driver.
“My mum raised me alone. Had to look after her. A mate got me work in a garage. After the army, I got my license. Pays well—extra jobs on the side too. Ring me anytime.” He grinned.
“And you? Studying or working?”
“I teach.”
“Good on you,” he said. “I’ll pick you up from school—make everyone jealous. Big lorry like this? No one else has one.”
He was easy to talk to. That evening, he called, asking her to the cinema.
“Sorry, I can’t. My dad’s in a wheelchair.”
“Then I’ll park outside. Just to see you.”
“Why?”
“Fancy you. Honest.”
“What if I don’t fancy you back?”
“Not good-looking enough? Ashamed of a lorry driver?”
“No! Fine—I’ll come out.”
The next day, his horn sounded outside.
“Who’s that? A beau?” her mother guessed.
“Just a friend. Can I go out for a minute?”
“Before he wakes the whole street.”
He came almost daily—sometimes waiting after school, driving her home. They’d sit in the cab, sharing tea or coffee from his flask, sandwiches his mother had packed.
“Quite the eager swain,” her mother remarked one evening as the lorry pulled away.
“He’s not a swain.”
“Time flies, love. Your friends are marrying. Why wait?”
“Too busy with lessons.”
Michael had mentioned marriage a few times, but Emily stalled. Her heart didn’t race when she saw him. She disliked how often he talked of money.
“Don’t worry—I’ve saved for the wedding. Extra work in autumn—firewood, harvest hauling. You won’t want for anything.” He hugged her in the oily cab. “Might buy a proper car by winter.”
No flowers, no cafés—just thermos tea. When his mother visited her sister, he’d take Emily to his flat. Their rare intimate moments were charmless. She made excuses, avoiding them.
She didn’t love him—but where else would she meet someone? He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke. Her mother urged her on. So she agreed—but made him wait till summer.
Winter usually dragged, but spring came quickly. After the May bank holiday, he insisted they register at the council office. He’d handle everything—she just needed a dress.
One day, hurrying home, she bumped into a man in the dim hallway.
“Emily?”
She turned, squinting.
“Paul. Don’t you remember?”
It was Paul—her childhood friend, once a scrawny boy, now tall and broad-shouldered. His parents used to bring him to his grandmother’s for summers. They’d played by the river, sworn to stay together forever.
“I’m visiting Gran. You’re lovely now,” he said.
“You’ve changed too.” Her heart fluttered under his gaze.
“Working?”
“Teaching. Dad’s in a wheelchair… Doctors say he could walk, but he won’t try. Drinks instead.”
“And you?”
“I’m getting married,” she blurted, then flushed.
“Who’s the lucky man?”
“Got to go.” She fled upstairs.
Now she cringed when Michael honked outside. One evening, refusing to join him, her mother pressed her.
“Going to marry him or not? Seen you with Paul.”
“Just friends.”
But Paul made her pulse race. His little bouquets, his morning texts—they brought joy Michael never could. She started avoiding Michael until, one night, he dragged her into his flat.
Her father called—her mother had collapsed. Michael tried to keep her, but she fled. Outside, Paul’s car appeared.
At the hospital, the doctor said it was a stroke—caught just in time. On the drive home, she wept.
“Why didn’t your fiancé bring you?”
“He didn’t want to.” She sobbed. “It’s over. No wedding.”
Paul pulled over, kissed her tears away. The world narrowed to just them.
The next day, she told Michael. He came, furious, but she handed back the ring.
At the hospital, her mother asked, “Is this about Paul? He’ll leave, and you’ll be alone.”
“I’d rather be alone.”
Paul left for London but returned two weeks later. He’d arranged hospital care for her father. After surgery, six months later, at their wedding, her father stood on crutches.
