**Diary Entry**
Emily and Daniel were at her best friend’s wedding. The celebration was winding down when the host announced the bouquet toss. Emily hadn’t planned to take part, lingering at the back, but then—there it was, sailing straight toward her. She caught it without thinking. The guests applauded while Daniel clutched his head in exaggerated horror, the usual act blokes put on when their girlfriends catch *that* bouquet.
As Emily returned to her table, she overheard voices from the corridor. Daniel’s stood out.
“Now you’re done for!” someone laughed. “Emily’s practically picking out wedding rings already!”
“Bound to happen eventually,” Daniel scoffed. “Might as well enjoy the ride—free meals, clean shirts. Doubt I’ll marry her anytime soon.”
“Bet you’ll be dragging her down the aisle in six months.”
“Not a chance. She’s not going anywhere. Cooks a mean roast and still does my laundry.”
Emily froze, her stomach twisting. She didn’t make a scene—wouldn’t ruin her friend’s day. Instead, she grabbed her coat, dumped the bouquet in a bin by the door, and hailed a cab.
She and Daniel split their London flat right down the middle: rent, bills, groceries. He’d tried shoving all the chores on her, but she shot that down fast—*if I’m the housewife, you’re the sugar daddy*. That shut him up, though he still moaned to his mates about her *loving* to fold his socks.
Back at the flat, Emily yanked out her suitcases. Most of her things were still at her parents’, so packing took half an hour. In the kitchen, she upturned the garbage bin, emptied the fridge, and drowned the lot in leftover gravy. Briefly considered soaking his shirts in it too—but no. She left.
A week later, everything changed. Her firm offered a promotion—HQ in Manchester. Then… two pink lines. Pregnancy.
The doctor confirmed it was early—time to decide: career or motherhood? Emily chose the career. Booked the appointment, signed the transfer, took a few days off, and slept. Just slept. No one’s socks to pick up.
Her friend Lucy visited after the honeymoon:
“You two were perfect! I thought you’d be ring shopping by now.”
“I left. He wasn’t who I thought. And ‘perfect’? Only from the outside.” Emily hesitated, then confessed—the pregnancy, the choice.
Lucy swore secrecy. But, as these things go, she told her husband, who told Daniel.
He showed up at her parents’ in Kent:
“How could you? That was my child too!”
“And you are… what, exactly? My husband? We were only ever *together* in your head.”
“I’d have helped! Money, parenting—”
“Did you *ask* if I wanted to beg for scraps? Be a single mum? I chose *me*. You’re not father material.”
“Why the hell did you wreck the fridge?”
“Felt like it. Cheers, Daniel.”
He stared as she walked away. Two days later, he’d be buying drinks for the whole lads’ night out—a bet’s a bet.
Lesson? Your mouth digs your grave faster than a shovel ever could.
