Emily and James were at her best friend’s wedding. The celebration was winding down when the host announced the bouquet toss. Emily hadn’t planned to participate, standing off to the side, but suddenly, the flowers flew straight toward her. She caught them reflexively. The guests cheered, and James dramatically clutched his head—a predictable reaction when men pretend to dread their girlfriends catching *that* bouquet.
As Emily returned to her table, she overheard a conversation through a half-open door. James’s voice was unmistakable.
“Better brace yourself now!” someone laughed. “Emily’s practically at the registry office in her head. She caught the bouquet!”
“Easy come, easy go,” James scoffed. “I’m not getting married for at least five years. Why would I? She cooks for me just fine as it is.”
“Bet you’ll be dragging her down the aisle in six months. If not, she’ll find someone with better prospects. You’ll be left with your dirty laundry and microwave meals.”
“Mark my words—we’ve lived together a year. She’s not going anywhere. She’ll keep making dinner and doing my washing.”
Emily froze, her stomach turning to ice. She didn’t make a scene—she wouldn’t ruin her friend’s day. Instead, she grabbed her coat, dumped the bouquet in the bin by the entrance, and called a taxi.
She and James split their flat expenses down the middle: rent, bills, even groceries. He’d tried shoving all the housework onto her, but she’d made it clear—if she played housewife, he’d play breadwinner. That didn’t sit right with him. Reluctantly, he started doing his share of washing up and tidying.
Yet to his mates, he played the alpha male, bragging about how she *loved* folding his socks.
Back at the flat, Emily silently packed her suitcases. Most of her things were already at her parents’, so it took barely half an hour. In the kitchen, she emptied the bin, dumped the fridge’s contents, and poured gravy over it all. She even considered soaking his shirts in the mess—but thought better of it.
And then she left.
A week later, everything changed. She was offered a transfer to the head office—a real career leap. And then… a pregnancy test showed two lines.
She had to decide fast: career or motherhood. The doctor confirmed it was early; she had time to think. Emily chose her career. After the procedure, she finalised the transfer, took a few days off, and slept. Just slept. No one’s socks to pick up.
Her friend Lucy, back from her honeymoon, came to visit.
“You two were perfect together! I thought you’d be ring shopping by now.”
“I left. He wasn’t the one. And ‘perfect’? That was just the show we put on.” Emily hesitated, then confessed everything—the pregnancy, the choice.
Lucy nodded, promising secrecy. But as these things go, she told her husband. Who told James.
He turned up at Emily’s parents’ house.
“How could you? That was my child too!”
“And you’re what to me? A husband? We were only ‘together’ in your head and on your sofa.”
“I’d have helped! With money, with raising it!”
“Did you ask if I wanted to rely on handouts? To be a single mum? I chose myself. You’re too small a man to be a father.”
“Why did you pour rubbish in the fridge?”
“Felt like it. Cheers, James.”
He stared as she walked away. Two days later, he’d be footing the bill for their entire group’s dinner—a bet was a bet.
Funny how people dig their own graves with their words.
