**No Wedding Bells**
Emily had graduated from teacher training college with top honors, dreaming of university. But fate had other plans. Her father was in a serious car crash 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 town—she’d have to move to the nearest city. Emily decided to wait another year. She couldn’t leave her parents alone in such a difficult time. Instead, she took a job at the local primary school.
Doctors were hopeful her father would walk again if he exercised, had physio, and took his medication. Her mother sold their holiday cottage in Devon to pay for a physiotherapist and prescriptions. But her father never stood up from that wheelchair.
“That’s enough,” he snapped one day. “Stop wasting money. I won’t walk again, so why bother?”
His temper soured. He grew irritable, suspicious, picking at everything—especially her mother. If he called, she had to drop what she was doing and rush to him. Usually, he just wanted water, a chat, or to ask something pointless. Meanwhile, dinner burned on the stove.
“James, you could wheel yourself to the kitchen. Now the roast is ruined,” her mother scolded.
“My whole life’s ruined, and you’re worried about dinner? Easy for you to say—you’ve got working legs. Is it really so hard to fetch me a glass of water?” He’d glare, red-faced, and sometimes hurl a plate or cup in frustration. Lately, he’d started asking for whiskey, and when he drank, his anger turned vicious—as if her mother had caused the crash.
“Dad, stop drinking. It won’t help. Why not read, play chess—do something?” Emily pleaded.
“What do you know? Trying to take my last bit of joy? Books are just lies. You read them. Life’s not like that. I’m useless now.”
“Mum, don’t buy him whiskey anymore,” Emily begged.
“If I don’t, he’ll scream. It’s hard for him. What else can we do?”
“Hard for *him*? He won’t even try to walk! He enjoys making us suffer!”
She pitied him, but she and her mother were exhausted. One evening, Emily came home with a sore throat, desperate to rest. But her father kept calling her—over and over—until she snapped.
“Enough! I’m *exhausted*. You have wheels—go get your own drink! You’re not the only disabled person in the world. Some even work, compete in the Paralympics, but you can’t manage the *kitchen*?” She stormed off.
She heard his wheelchair roll down the hall, pause at her door—but he didn’t barge in. After that, he tried to do more himself.
On warm days, Emily left the balcony door open. Her father would sit there, “taking the air.” The door was too narrow for his chair—they’d have to widen it, but where would the money come from?
“Put me in a care home,” he muttered after drinking.
“Don’t say that! You’re alive—that’s what matters,” her mother soothed.
“You’ll get sick of changing my bedpan. Pity won’t last forever. Why keep a cripple?”
So life crawled on. A year slipped by unnoticed. Then, one rainy autumn day, Emily left school just as a downpour started. She huddled under a bus shelter, but wind lashed rain sideways. Cars sped through puddles, splashing her legs. She shivered, soaked through.
Suddenly, a lorry pulled up. A man jumped out, holding his jacket over his head, and dashed to her.
“Get in—I’ll drive you home.”
Too cold to refuse, Emily ducked under the jacket, smelling oil and petrol. He helped her into the cab—warm and dry.
“Michael,” he said.
“Emily.”
“Where to, Emily?”
She gave her address. He chatted the whole way—how he’d become a lorry driver to support his mum after his dad left, how he’d joined a garage as a teen, then drove after the army. “Good money, side jobs too. Need a lift? Call me.” Just like that, he was on first-name terms.
“And you? Studying? Working?”
“I teach at the primary school.”
“Nice. Bet the kids love you.” He grinned. “Next time, I’ll pick you up right at the gates. Everyone’ll be jealous.”
It was easy with him. Maybe too easy. When he called that night to ask her to the cinema, she hesitated.
“Sorry, I can’t. My dad’s in a wheelchair.”
“I’ll come to you, then.”
“Why?”
“Want to see you. I like you.” Simple. Direct.
“What if I don’t like *you*? Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Why wouldn’t you? Not handsome enough? Ashamed of a lorry driver?” His tone turned sharp.
“Sorry—I didn’t mean… Fine, I’ll come out.”
The next day, his horn blared outside.
“Who’s that? A *suitor*?” Her mother smirked.
“Just a friend. Can I go out for a bit?”
She did. He kept coming—sometimes waiting after school, with tea and sandwiches his mum had packed.
“Getting serious, isn’t he?” her mother said one night, watching his lorry leave.
“He’s *not* serious.”
“Your friends are marrying. He’s clearly keen. What’s wrong with him?”
“I’m busy. Lesson plans, marking…” She fled to her room.
Michael brought up marriage often, but Emily stalled. Her heart didn’t race when she saw him. She hated how he talked about money—how much he’d saved, the used BMW he’d buy by winter. No flowers (“waste of cash”), no restaurants (“overpriced”). Just thermos tea and cab kisses that tasted of engine grease.
She didn’t love him. But where else would she meet someone? He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke. Her mother approved. So, she said yes—but made him wait till summer.
Winter usually dragged, but spring came too soon. After the May bank holiday, Michael insisted they file at the registry office. All she had to do was buy a dress and show up.
Then, one afternoon, she bumped into a man in her hallway. Squinting in the dim light, she mumbled sorry—until he spoke.
“Emily?”
She turned.
“Paul. Don’t you recognize me?”
Her childhood friend—now tall, broad-shouldered. His parents used to bring him from London to stay with his gran next door every summer. They’d sworn at eight they’d stay together forever. When visits stopped, she’d cried for weeks.
“You look amazing,” he said softly.
Her heart fluttered.
“Working at the school. Dad’s still in the wheelchair…”
“Gran told me. Any chance he’ll walk?”
“He *could*. But he’s given up.” She looked away, ashamed.
“And you? Happy?”
“Getting married,” she blurted—then flushed.
“Who’s the lucky man?”
“I—I have to go.” She rushed upstairs, feeling his gaze.
Now, when Michael honked outside, she cringed. Paul might be watching.
“You saw Paul again,” her mother noted.
“We’re just friends.”
But she adored him. His texts (“Good morning, beautiful”), wildflowers left on her doorstep—tiny joys that made her forget Michael.
She avoided Michael, but he kept coming, honking till neighbours yelled. One evening, she stormed out in slippers.
“You’re embarrassing me!”
He opened the door. “Come for a drive.”
“Now? In *slippers*?”
“Just an hour.”
She got in, praying Paul wasn’t watching.
At his flat, he pushed her toward the bedroom, hands everywhere—until his phone rang.
“It’s your dad.” He put it on speaker.
“Michael, is Emily there? Her mum collapsed. Ambulance took her—”
Emily bolted, but Michael grabbed her.
“Let me go!”
“You can’t help. Doctors won’t let you in now. Stay.” He kissed her neck.
She shoved him back—hard. He tripped over his boots, landing on the shoe rack. She fled.
No phone, no money—just a dressing gown and slippers. Then headlights blinded her.
Paul’s car.
“Get in!”
At the hospital, he sweet-talked the guard. The doctor said it was a stroke—but they’d caught it early.
On the drive back, she sobbed.
“Why didn’t *he* bring you?” Paul asked gently.
“He didn’t want to.” She wiped her face. “It’s over.”
Paul pulled over, kissed her tear-streaked cheeks, her lips—until the world vanished.
The next day, she texted Michael:The following summer, beneath the soft glow of a Sussex garden marquee, Emily exchanged vows with Paul, her father standing proudly on his crutches, while Michael’s lorry rumbled past the church gates—unseen, unremarked, and finally forgotten.
