**Diary Entry – 31st March**
Emily fussed with her dress. The white lace gown, bought in a rush at a high-street sale for pennies, felt cheap now. The stitching she’d barely inspected looked frayed under the flat London light.
*Doesn’t matter*, she told herself. *As long as Oliver likes it*. She sighed. This was her wedding dress. Oliver… Her dream, her love-at-first-sight. Though if she were honest, he wasn’t exactly Prince Charming. More like a roguish pub regular—shoulders broad, wheat-blond hair perpetually unruly, that crooked grin that made her stomach flip.
Emily had always believed love would strike like lightning. Sudden. Romantic. Straight out of a Jane Austen novel. Anything less wouldn’t do.
Her phone buzzed, yanking her back to reality. Mum, of course, ready to beg her to call it off.
“Emmie, darling, listen to me—listen to someone who’s lived a bit longer!” Mum’s voice cracked—she’d been crying for days. “A wedding a *month* after meeting? You don’t *know* him!”
Same old lines.
“Real love doesn’t need time,” Emily murmured dreamily. “It’s *fate*. Like in the films!”
“Films end at the bloody *altar*, love!” Mum snapped. “They don’t show the washing-up, the bills, the sleepless nights—do you even know *where* he works? His plans?”
Emily faltered. They’d never talked about it. Their days were spent whispering sweet nothings, not logistics.
“Something… logistics, I think?” she hedged. Best keep it vague—Mum *would* check.
Thank God she didn’t ask about hobbies. Oliver’s were pints with mates and FIFA till 3 AM. But did that matter when your heart felt *this* full?
Dad took the phone. “Emily, how can you build a life with a stranger? You can’t even name his *job*!”
“Gran and Grandad did! They married quicker than us!”
“One in a million luck, that,” Dad grunted.
“Then I’ll be lucky too.”
“Emily!”
“Sorry—Oliver’s here. Gotta go.” She hung up before they could protest.
Oliver arrived in a crumpled navy suit, sleeves too short, trousers pooling over scuffed trainers. In his hands, a bunch of daisies tied with a ribbon—probably nicked from some park. To Emily, they were perfection.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded, knuckles white around her bouquet. One deep breath, and she stepped out—past doubts, past reason—straight toward what she swore was destiny.
The registry office was bleak. A tired clerk droned through vows. Oliver fumbled the ring. Relatives (his side only—hers had boycotted the “farce”) snapped photos with forced smiles.
Back at Oliver’s flat (now *theirs*), a sad buffet awaited: ham sandwiches, a bowl of potato salad, sliced tomatoes. His aunt Margaret (who’d cooked it all, scowling), uncle Geoff (perpetually hungover), and cousin Lily (eyeing Emily like she’d stolen something) offered stiff congratulations before fleeing. Their faces screamed *funeral*, not wedding.
When the door shut, Oliver exhaled. “Done. Husband and wife—forever!” He spun her, and she laughed despite herself.
Three hours later, the circus began. Bored after the relatives left, Oliver announced: “Wedding’s not *proper* without the lads!” And with that, he vanished into the night, leaving Emily alone in their new “home.”
“Back soon!” he’d called. “Can’t ditch my mates on my *wedding day*, can I?”
“Soon” meant dawn. He stumbled in reeking of lager, slurred an apology, and face-planted into bed. Emily wordlessly tucked him in.
Morning brought his hangover and her hollow regret. She’d made a mistake—but admitting it meant facing Mum’s *I told you so*. So she stayed. Love *could* fix him, right?
Life with Oliver was chaos. Spontaneous weekends in Brighton with no warning. Entire paychecks blown on gaming gear. Screaming matches over unwashed mugs, followed by sloppy apologies. Once, he bought a £500 abstract painting—just splatters on canvas.
“Masterpiece!” he’d crowed. “You wouldn’t *get* art.”
(He didn’t either.) Emily eyed it, thinking of the broken washing machine they couldn’t afford to fix. She stayed quiet.
Oliver moaned about his logistics job but never quit. Emily worked at a salon, kept the flat tidy, played house—until the charade cracked.
One day, after he’d blown rent on nonsense, she snapped.
“We’re *broke*!” she yelled. “Why do *I* have to scrape by while you *piss* money away?”
“Jesus, relax! I work hard—I deserve fun!”
“And what am I? Your *maid*?”
“Then treat yourself! Go to those dance classes you wanted!”
(*With what money?*)
Their anniversary, she tried. Candles, champagne, hope he’d remember. He came home drunk—with *Sophie*, a waif of a girl trembling beside him.
“Em… this is Sophie. She’s… pregnant.”
The room tilted.
“*Mine*,” Oliver added, swaying. “But I love *you*! She’ll just stay with us till she sorts things—”
Emily walked past him—out the door, onto the street, onto a bus to Gran’s in Cornwall.
Gran gaped. “Emily? Love, what’s happened?”
The truth spilled out—Oliver’s recklessness, Sophie, the crushing weight of her mistake.
“I thought love conquered all,” Emily sobbed. “But he never loved me. I wanted what you and Grandad had…”
Gran sighed. “Oh, pet. That’s the thing—we *weren’t* what you thought.”
A confession followed: Gran had married out of convenience, loved another man (married himself), stayed for the kids. Grandad knew. Tolerated it.
Emily reeled. Her role models—a lie.
“Why tell me now?”
“Because *settling* is a slow death,” Gran said. “Don’t waste years being ‘convenient.’”
—
Months later, Emily reconnected with James, an old schoolmate. No whirlwind romance—just steady, *real* love.
Oliver married Sophie. It crashed. He kept drinking, spending. She left too.
Once, Sophie called. Emily hesitated before answering.
“I’m… sorry,” Sophie whispered. “For that night. I was desperate.”
“Ancient history,” Emily said softly. “How’s the baby?”
“Hard. Oliver’s worse—jobless now. I thought I could *change* him…”
“Didn’t we all?”
**Lesson learned:** Love isn’t lightning. It’s the quiet embers that keep you warm—not the spark that burns you alive.
