**Journal Entry – 12th October**
I chose myself. And you? You placed your bet on someone else’s socks.
Olivia and Jake were at her best friend’s wedding. The celebration was winding down when the MC announced the bouquet toss. Olivia had no intention of joining—she stood aside until, suddenly, the flowers soared straight toward her. Instinctively, she raised her hands, and the bouquet landed in her palms. The guests cheered, while Jake—ever the dramatic—clutched his head in mock despair. Predictable. Men always put on a show when their girlfriends catch *that* bouquet.
She was heading back to their table when she overheard a conversation through a cracked door. Jake’s voice was unmistakable.
“Brace yourself, mate!” someone laughed. “Olivia’s practically at the altar in her mind now she’s caught the bouquet.”
“Easier to tie down than untie,” Jake snickered. “I’m not getting married for at least five years. I’ve got it good as it is—she cooks, she cleans.”
“Bet you’ll be the one dragging her to the registry in six months. If not, she’ll find someone with better prospects. Then it’ll just be you, Pot Noodles, and your dirty laundry.”
“Mark my words—we’ve lived together a year. She won’t go anywhere. Still gonna make my dinners and wash my socks.”
Olivia froze. A cold numbness spread through her. She refused to make a scene—ruining her friend’s day wasn’t an option. She grabbed her coat, tossed the bouquet in the nearest bin, and called a cab.
They’d been splitting their flat down the middle—rent, bills, groceries. Jake had tried shoving all the housework onto her, but she’d set him straight: if she was the maid, he’d better be the sugar daddy. That didn’t fly. Reluctantly, he’d started doing his share—dishes, hoovering, the lot.
Yet to his mates, he played the role of the alpha, bragging about how she *loved* picking up after him.
Back at the flat, Olivia wordlessly pulled out her suitcases. Most of her things were still at her parents’, so packing took half an hour. In the kitchen, she emptied the bin, dumped everything from the fridge, and poured a pot of baked beans—cold, congealed—over the mess. Briefly, she considered chucking his favourite football shirts in too but thought better of it.
And then she left.
A week later, everything changed. She was offered a transfer to HQ—a real career leap. And then… two lines on the test. Pregnant.
The choice was immediate: career or motherhood. The GP confirmed it was early—she had time to decide. Olivia chose the career. Booked the appointment, signed the transfer papers, took a few days’ leave, and slept. Just slept. No one’s socks to wash.
When her friend, Emma, returned from her honeymoon, she dropped by:
“You two were perfect! I thought you’d be ring-shopping by now.”
“I left. He wasn’t the one. And ‘perfect’? Only looked that way from the outside. Besides—” Olivia hesitated, but the truth spilled out. The pregnancy. The choice.
Emma nodded, swore secrecy. But—as these things go—she told her husband. Who told Jake.
He turned up at her parents’ house:
“How could you? That was my child too!”
“And you are… what, exactly? My husband? We were only ever ‘together’ in your head—and on your sofa.”
“I’d have helped! Financially! Been involved!”
“Did you ever ask if I *wanted* to rely on your scraps? If I wanted to be a single mum? I chose myself. You’re too small a man to be a father.”
“Why’d you pour bin juice in the fridge?”
“Sorry. I was in a mood. Cheers, Jake.”
He stared after her. Two days later, he’d be footing the bill for a lads’ dinner—a bet’s a bet.
Funny, really. Some people really do dig their own graves with their tongues.
