The Wedding That Never Was
Emily had graduated from teacher training college with honours, dreaming of university. But fate had other plans. Her father was in a terrible car accident and spent months in hospital. When he was finally discharged, her mother took leave from work to care for him at home while he adjusted to life in a wheelchair.
There was no university in their small town—she would have to move to the nearest city. Emily decided to postpone her studies for a year. She couldn’t leave her parents alone in such a difficult time. Instead, she took a job at the local primary school.
The doctors had given them hope—her father might walk again with therapy, exercise, and medication. Her mother sold their family caravan to pay for physiotherapy and massage treatments. But in the end, he never left his wheelchair.
“That’s enough,” he said one day. “Stop wasting money on me. It won’t work.”
His temperament soured. He grew irritable, suspicious, critical. Her mother bore the worst of it. If he called, she had to drop everything—whether it was for a glass of water, a question, or just to chat. Meanwhile, dinner burned on the stove.
“Dad, you could wheel yourself to the kitchen. Now the potatoes are ruined,” her mother scolded.
“My life is ruined, and you’re worried about potatoes. Easy for you to say—you’ve still got your legs. Is it so hard to bring me a drink?” he snapped.
Sometimes, in a rage, he’d hurl a cup or plate at her. More and more, he asked for whisky, and after drinking, he’d lash out at her as if the accident had been her fault.
“Dad, don’t drink. It won’t help. Find something to do—read, play chess,” Emily pleaded.
“What do you know? Trying to take my last bit of joy? Books are all lies. You read them. Life’s not like that. I’m good for nothing now,” he grumbled.
“Mum, stop buying him whisky,” Emily begged.
“If I don’t, he’ll shout all night. He’s suffering. What else can I do?” her mother sighed.
“He won’t get better if he doesn’t try. The doctors said he could walk again. He just doesn’t want to. He likes making us run around after him,” Emily fumed.
She pitied him, but life was hard for them, too. One evening, exhausted after work with a sore throat, she longed to rest. Yet her father kept calling for her. Finally, she snapped.
“That’s enough. I’m tired. You have wheels—go to the kitchen yourself and drink as much as you like. You’re not the only one like this. Hundreds of people live this way, some even work, compete in the Paralympics. And you can’t even get to the kitchen? Go on, try. I’ve got lessons to prepare.” And she walked away.
She heard the whisper of his wheelchair on the floor, the clink of a glass in the kitchen, the slow roll past her door—hesitating, as if he might burst in and shout. But he kept going. After that, he became more independent.
On mild days, Emily left the balcony door open. Her father would sit there in the doorway—”getting fresh air.” The narrow frame and step made it impossible for him to go outside. They couldn’t afford to widen the door.
“Put me in a care home,” he’d say after drinking.
“Don’t talk like that. You’re alive—that’s what matters. We’ll manage,” her mother reassured him.
“You say that now. Soon you’ll be tired of emptying my bedpan. You’ll stay out of pity. What use am I to you? You’re still young…”
So life went on. A year slipped by, and another rainy autumn arrived. One day, as Emily left school, the skies opened before she reached the bus stop. She sheltered under a glass canopy, but the wind lashed rain inside. Cars sped past, splashing puddles onto waiting passengers. She stood there, shivering like a bedraggled sparrow.
Suddenly, a lorry pulled up beside her. A young man jumped out, holding his jacket over his head, and dashed to join her.
“Get in—I’ll drive you home.”
Soaked and cold, she ducked under his jacket, breathing in the scent of petrol and engine oil. He helped her into the cab, warm and dry inside.
“Daniel,” he said.
“Emily.”
“Emily, then. Where to?”
She gave her address, and Daniel talked the whole way, explaining how he’d become a lorry driver.
“Just me and Mum growing up. Time I looked after her. A neighbour took me on as a mechanic. After the army, I got my HGV license. Not bad—decent pay, extra jobs on the side. So if you ever need a lift, just call.” He slid easily into first-name terms.
“And you? Studying or working?” he asked.
“Teaching at the primary school.”
“Good for you,” he said approvingly. “I’ll pull up outside, you hop in, everyone will be jealous.” He grinned when she laughed. “It’s a big lorry. No one else has one like it.”
He was easy company. And who knew when she might need help? She gave him her number. That evening, he called, inviting her to the cinema.
“Sorry, I can’t. My father’s in a wheelchair—he needs me.”
“What if I swing by your house? Just to see you,” he pressed.
“Why would you?”
“Because I like you. Simple as that.”
“What if you’re not my type? Doesn’t that bother you?”
Suddenly defensive, he scowled. “What, not good-looking enough? Ashamed of a lorry driver?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Fine, I’ll come out,” she said quickly, ending the call.
The next day, a horn blared outside. She peeked through the curtains. His lorry idled below.
“Who’s that racket for? A suitor?” her mother guessed.
“Just someone I know. Can I go out for a bit?”
“Go on, before he wakes the whole street.”
Daniel came almost daily after that. Sometimes he picked her up after school, and they’d sit in the cab, talking over tea or coffee from his flask, sandwiches his mother had packed.
“He’s keen. A fine catch,” her mother remarked one evening as the lorry rumbled away.
“He’s not a catch.”
“Youth won’t last forever. Your friends are all settling down. Planning to stay single till you retire? He doesn’t come round for nothing.”
“Mum, I’m busy. I’ve got lessons to plan,” Emily mumbled, retreating to her room.
Daniel had mentioned marriage more than once, but she asked him to wait. Her heart didn’t leap when she saw him, didn’t race at his touch. She disliked how often he talked about money.
“Don’t worry—I’ve got enough for the wedding. We’ll do it proper. Plenty of extra jobs in autumn—firewood hauling, harvest runs. You won’t go hungry with me, Em. By winter, I’ll buy a proper car.” He pulled her close in the cramped, oily cab.
No flowers—waste of money, he said. No cafés or restaurants—just tea and sandwiches. When his mother visited her sister, he took Emily to his place. Even intimacy was practical, unromantic. She made excuses, avoided those nights.
She didn’t love him. But where would she meet anyone else? Always rushing home after work. Daniel was here, didn’t drink, didn’t smoke. Her mother encouraged it. So she said yes—but made him wait till summer.
Winter usually dragged, changing everything. But spring came too soon, and after the May bank holiday, Daniel insisted on registering at the town hall. He’d take care of everything. She just needed to buy a dress and show up.
Then, one day, hurrying home, she collided with a man in the dim hallway. She apologised, moving past.
“Emily?”
She turned, squinting.
“Peter! Don’t you recognise me?”
A childhood friend, visiting his grandmother next door. Once a scrawny boy, he was tall and handsome now. Summers spent together, promises to stay friends forever. Then, as teens, awkwardness replaced ease.
“You’ve grown up beautiful,” he said, studying her.
Heat rose in her cheeks. “You’ve changed too.”
Heart pounding, breath shallow—just thinking of him made her forget Daniel, the wedding. Modest bouquets, sweet texts—they meant more than practical promises.
When Daniel honked outside, she seethed, ashamed Peter might see.
“You’re getting married, remember? Saw you with Peter again,” her mother said one evening.
“We’re just old friends.”
But she adored him.
Then, disaster. Her mother collapsed, was rushed to hospital. Daniel refused to drive her—too late, he said, doctors wouldn’t let her in. When he tried to pull her back,She broke free, ran into the night, and it was Peter—not Daniel—who raced her to the hospital, his kindness and love proving that some promises, made long ago in childhood, were worth keeping after all.
