The First Pancake is Always Lumpy
Margaret was a lovely girl of twenty-seven. Her life was like that old song: “You take what you get, and you don’t get upset.” Plenty of lads fancied her, but most just wanted one thing—to jump straight into bed. Why wait? Times had changed. Opportunities couldn’t be missed. Let them slip, and someone else would take your place.
She’d grown up in a house of women—raised by her grandmother and mother, both proper, well-mannered ladies. She was named after her great-great-grandmother, who’d been educated in a finishing school back in the days of Empire.
Her grandfather had died young, and her parents split when she was twelve. As a girl, she’d devoured books where romantic heroes defended their lovers’ honour, braving danger and hardship to keep them safe. Margaret dreamed of love like that—pure, selfless, full of stolen kisses under the moonlight. She was modern, she knew how things worked, but her heart longed for something old-fashioned.
Most lads these days had no patience for romance. They wanted everything now—no fuss, no waiting. A single rose on the first date, then straight to business. No moonlit walks, no courting. Flowers, if they came at all, were reserved for birthdays and anniversaries—assuming things lasted that long.
No poetry, no grand gestures. And plenty of girls were fine with that. Why waste time on chatter when you could get straight to the fun?
But Margaret wasn’t having it. She’d still get that flutter in her chest, that dizzy rush of infatuation—only to watch the object of her affection chase after someone else or even one of her mates. Men were in a hurry to have their fun while they could, before wives and children pinned them down.
All her friends had married, divorced, remarried, had more kids, and now wearily asked when *she*’d finally find her prince. But where was he? What if he never showed up?
Dreams were all very well, but time wasn’t kind. The pool of single men around her had dried up, leaving mostly divorcees. She was tired of waiting. Her heart wanted love. Then she met Robert—handsome, with a flat in London and a decent car. What more could a girl ask for? So she dived in headfirst.
Time passed. No proposal came. Then she found out he was married. Not that he’d hidden it—he’d just lost his head over her. And Margaret hadn’t asked. He wasn’t even living with his wife, just couldn’t be bothered with divorce. But now that he’d met Margaret, he’d sort it. First thing tomorrow.
Margaret was thrilled—so much so, she never asked if he had kids. Turns out, he did.
She waited patiently for him to divorce, dreaming of the day he’d be hers alone. It finally happened—but his wife got the car in the settlement. The flat too. He walked away with nothing but debt, a mortgage, and child support.
Was this what she’d dreamed of? She *should* have left him then. But she’d been raised better. Her grandmother and mother had taught her—if you love someone, you stand by them, no matter what. So she did, like a loyal Victorian wife.
Her family suspected something was wrong, but it was too late. Robert finally proposed, borrowed a fortune, and they had a lavish wedding.
They moved into a rented flat—Margaret kept that quiet. She told herself she was happy. Whatever happened, they’d face it together. If she noticed warning signs, she ignored them. And then she got pregnant.
Robert took on extra work, coming home late, collapsing into bed. In the mornings, he’d glare at her before leaving.
So Margaret got what she’d wanted. She played the happy wife in front of her family—but they knew. As her due date neared, panic set in. How would they manage? Robert’s wages vanished into debts and rent. Her coat wouldn’t button over her belly. The baby needed things. They needed *food*.
“I’ll figure it out,” Robert said, coming home later each night. Money never appeared.
One morning, she asked for rent. “Sorry,” he said. “Paid a debt. Ask your mum.”
So she did. They scraped together what they could. “Leave him,” her grandmother urged.
Margaret snapped at Robert, guilt gnawing at her.
“You’re on maternity leave,” he said. “Find work from home.”
Easy for him to say. But she did—tutoring English. Schools rushed through the curriculum, leaving kids half-literate. Soon, word spread. Now *he* was asking *her* for money.
After the birth, she kept tutoring, cradling her son as worries faded. Friends brought a pram, a cot, hand-me-downs. Then one whispered the truth—Robert wasn’t working late. He was with a woman upstairs.
She confronted him. He denied it, yelled, called her jealous.
“Jealous of *what*?” she spat. Tears burned, but what good were they?
She left soon after. Robert begged her to stay, swearing he’d change. But she’d had enough. “You’re unreliable. A liar. All you’re good for is making babies.”
She moved back with her son. Life improved. She swore off men—who’d want a single mum?
Then Robert’s mother came pleading. “A boy needs his father! He’s changed!”
He arrived with roses, on his knees, sobbing. Even had a ring.
“Did your mistress dump you?” Margaret said. “I’m not coming back.”
At work, she brushed off advances—until one man wouldn’t take no. He cared for her son, won her over. Her family hoped *this* time, she’d be lucky.
Robert stormed in, accusing her of betrayal. “You left me for *him*?”
“I left *long* before I met him.”
His mother returned with gifts, guilt-tripping her—”A boy needs his *real* father!”
“He has one. A *proper* one.”
Robert visited sporadically, barely speaking to his son.
Meanwhile, Margaret’s life blossomed. Her fiancé proposed. No big wedding—just registry office and a pub lunch. Why waste money? She’d had her fairy-tale.
Then Robert called—missed his boy. She agreed, knowing he’d snoop. Sure enough, he spotted her ring.
“You remarried?” he whined.
“Your problem, not mine.”
“He’ll raise *my* son?”
“You didn’t want to.”
“Then drop the child support!”
“Not a chance.”
“Fine. I’ll report lower earnings—you’ll get pennies.”
He did. But he still wore designer clothes. Came around only when his mum forced him.
Margaret was finally happy. Robert kept failing.
Sometimes the first marriage fails—like the first pancake. But in the end, everyone lands where they belong.
