**No Wedding Bells**
Emily finished teacher training college with top marks, dreaming of university. But fate had other plans. Her dad had a terrible car crash and spent months in hospital. When he finally came home, her mum took leave to care for him while he adjusted to life in a wheelchair.
There was no university in their town—she’d have to move to the nearest city. Emily decided to wait a year. She couldn’t leave her parents alone in such a hard time. Instead, she started teaching at a local school.
Doctors had given them hope—with exercise, physiotherapy, and medication, her dad might walk again. Her mum sold their weekend cottage to pay for specialists, massages, and medicine. But months passed, and he never left that wheelchair.
“That’s enough. Stop wasting money. I’m not getting up, end of story,” he snapped one day.
His temper soured. He grew irritable, suspicious, nitpicking at everything—especially her mum. If he called, she had to drop everything. Usually, it was just for water, a random question, or idle chatter. Meanwhile, dinner burned on the stove.
“John, love, you could’ve wheeled yourself to the kitchen. Now the potatoes are ruined,” her mum sighed.
“My life’s ruined, and you’re worried about potatoes? Easy for you—you’ve got working legs. What’s so hard about bringing me a glass of water?” he grumbled.
Sometimes, in a rage, he’d hurl a plate or glass at her. Worse, he’d started demanding vodka. Drunk, he’d take his anger out on her mum, as if the accident were her fault.
“Dad, don’t drink. It won’t help—it’ll just make things worse. Why not play chess? Read a book?” Emily pleaded.
“What do you know? Trying to take my last bit of joy? Books are all lies—you read ’em. Life isn’t like that. I’m useless now,” he muttered.
“Mum, stop buying him vodka,” Emily begged.
“If I don’t, he’ll scream the house down. He’s suffering. What else can I do?” her mum whispered.
“He should be exercising, not drinking! The doctors said he could walk. He just doesn’t want to. He enjoys making us run around after him!” Emily snapped.
She felt terrible, but life was hard for them too. One evening, she came home exhausted, her throat sore, desperate to rest. But her dad kept calling her. Finally, she snapped.
“Enough! I’m shattered—can barely stand. You’ve got wheels—go to the kitchen yourself and drink till you drop. Plenty of people live like this and still work, even compete in the Paralympics. But you can’t wheel yourself for a glass of water? Go on, then. I’ve got lessons to plan.” She stormed off.
She heard the whir of his chair, the clink of a glass in the kitchen, the wheels pausing outside her door. She braced for him to barge in, shouting. But the sound rolled past. After that, he became more independent.
On warm days, Emily left the balcony door open. Her dad would sit there—his version of “fresh air.” The door was too narrow for his chair, and widening it cost money they didn’t have.
“Just put me in a care home,” he’d slur after drinking.
“Don’t talk like that! You’re alive—that’s what matters. We’ll manage,” her mum soothed.
“You say that now, but you’ll get sick of cleaning up after me. Pity isn’t love. What good’s a cripple to you? You’re still young…”
And so, life dragged on. A year slipped by, then another rainy autumn. One day, Emily left school just as the heavens opened—freezing, relentless rain. She ducked under the bus shelter, but the wind blew spray at her. Cars sped through puddles, splashing everyone. She stood there, soaked and shivering like a disgruntled sparrow.
Suddenly, a lorry pulled up. A bloke jumped out, holding his jacket over his head, and dashed to her.
“Get in. I’ll drive you home.”
Emily was drenched. She ducked under his jacket, breathing in petrol and engine oil, then clambered into the warm, dry cab.
“Michael,” he said.
“Emily.”
“Em, then. Where to?”
She gave her address. The whole way, Michael chatted—how he’d become a lorry driver after his dad left, how his mum needed support, how a neighbour got him an apprenticeship. “Pay’s decent, plus there’s odd jobs—moving this, hauling that. So if you ever need help, just ring me.”
“You studying or working?” he asked.
“Teaching at the primary school.”
“Nice,” he grinned. “I’ll pull up outside, you hop in, and all the kids’ll be jealous. What? It’s a big lorry—no one else has one!”
He was easy company. Maybe she’d need help someday? She gave him her number. That evening, he rang, asking her to the cinema.
“Sorry, can’t. My dad’s in a wheelchair—it’s complicated.”
“What if I swing by your place? Just to see you?”
“Why?”
“I like you. Simple as that.”
“What if I don’t fancy you? Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Why wouldn’t you? Not good-looking enough? Ashamed of a lorry driver?” he shot back.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend. Fine, I’ll come out.”
The next day, a honk outside. Emily peeked out—the lorry was there.
“Who’s that causing a racket? A suitor?” her mum guessed.
“Not a suitor. Just a mate. Can I pop out?”
“Go on, before he wakes the whole street.”
Michael started visiting most days, picking her up after school, driving her home. They’d sit in the cab, sipping tea or coffee from his thermos, snacking on sandwiches his mum had packed.
“Quite the devoted beau,” her mum mused when Emily came in one evening.
“He’s not a beau.”
“Why not? Time flies, love. Your friends are all getting married. Planning to stay single till retirement? He’s not just driving you around for fun.”
“Mum, I’m busy. Got lessons to plan,” Emily muttered, retreating to her room.
Michael had broached marriage a few times, but Emily asked him to wait. Her heart didn’t race when she saw him. She disliked how often he talked money.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got savings. We’ll do the wedding proper. Autumn’s busy—firewood deliveries, clearing gardens. You won’t go hungry with me,” he’d say, squeezing her in the oily cab.
No flowers (“waste of cash”), no restaurants (thermos tea and sarnies sufficed). When his mum visited her sister, he’d invite Emily over. Their intimacy was functional, uninspired. She dodged these visits with excuses.
She knew she didn’t love him. But where would she meet anyone else? School, home—that was her life. Michael was steady, didn’t drink or smoke. Her mum nudged her. So Emily said yes—but made him wait till summer.
Winter usually dragged, but this one flew. By May, Michael insisted they register at the registry office. He’d handle everything. She just needed a dress.
One day, rushing home, she smacked into a bloke in the dim hallway. Apologising, she moved past.
“Em?!”
She turned, squinting.
“Paul! Don’t recognise me?”
“Paul?! What are you doing here?” Her heart lurched.
Her childhood best friend—once scrawny, now tall, broad-shouldered, unfairly handsome. His parents used to bring him to his gran’s every summer. They’d sworn at eight they’d marry someday. Then his visits stopped—except once, for her gran’s birthday. Awkward teens, they’d barely spoken…
“Gran’s seventy-five. So… you look stunning.”
“You’ve changed too.” Her pulse raced under his gaze.
“Working or studying?”
“Teaching. Dad’s in a wheelchair after his crash…”
“Gran told me. No chance he’ll walk?”
“Could, if he tried. But he drinks instead.” Her cheeks burned.
“And you? Happy?”
“Getting married,” she blurted, then flushed.
“Who’s the lucky man?”
“Got to go—Mum’s waiting.” She bolted upstairs, feeling his eyes on her back.
Now, when Michael honked outside, she cringed. “You’re engaged, remember? Saw you with Paul again,” her mum said.
“I remember. We’re just friends.”
But Paul made her heart hammer. Flowers, sweet texts—she’d forget the wedding entirely. Compared to Paul, frugal Michael lost on all counts. She started avoiding himBut when Paul returned from London two weeks later, arranged for her father’s surgery, and stood by her side as her dad took his first steps on crutches, she finally realized that love wasn’t about settling for convenience—it was about choosing the person who made her heart race, even if it meant starting over.
