No Wedding
Emily graduated from teacher training college with top honors, dreaming of university. But her dreams were dashed when her father was badly injured in a car accident. After a long hospital stay, her mother took leave to care for him at home while he adjusted to life in a wheelchair.
Their small town had no university—she’d have to move to the nearest city. Emily decided to postpone her studies. She couldn’t leave her parents alone in such a difficult time. Instead, she took a job at the local primary school.
Doctors had been hopeful. With physical therapy, massages, and medication, her father might walk again. Her mother sold their countryside cottage to pay for a physiotherapist and prescriptions. But he never left the wheelchair.
“That’s enough,” he said one day. “Stop wasting money. Nothing’s going to change.”
His temper soured—he became irritable, suspicious, picking fights. Her mother bore the worst of it. If he called, she had to drop everything and rush to him. Usually, he just wanted a glass of water or idle chatter while dinner burned on the stove.
“David, you could wheel yourself to the kitchen. Now the potatoes are ruined,” her mother scolded.
“My whole life’s ruined, and you’re worried about potatoes? Easy for you to say—you can walk. Is it so hard to bring me a drink?” He’d throw a glass or plate in frustration.
Lately, he’d been asking for whisky. When drunk, he’d blame her mother for the accident.
“Dad, stop. It won’t help,” Emily pleaded. “Why not read? Play chess?”
“What do you know? Trying to take my last bit of joy? Books are full of lies. I’m useless now.”
“Mum, don’t buy him whisky anymore,” Emily begged.
“If I don’t, he’ll scream. He’s suffering. What can we do?”
“He should be doing his exercises, not drinking. The doctors said he could walk if he tried. He just enjoys tormenting us.”
One evening, exhausted from work and fighting a sore throat, Emily snapped when he called her again.
“Enough. I’m tired. You have wheels—get your own drink. You’re not the only one in a chair. Hundreds manage—some even work, compete in the Paralympics. And you can’t wheel to the kitchen? Do it yourself. I’ve got lessons to plan.” She walked away.
She heard the whir of his chair, the clink of a glass in the kitchen, the pause outside her door. She braced for shouting, but the sound faded down the hall. After that, he became more independent.
On warm days, she left the balcony door open. He’d sit there, “taking the air,” though the narrow threshold kept him from rolling outside. Widening the door would cost too much.
“Put me in a care home,” he’d slur after drinking.
“Don’t say that!” her mother protested. “You’re alive—that’s what matters.”
“For now. Until you’re sick of emptying my bedpan. You’ll stay out of pity. Who wants a cripple? You’re still young…”
And so life went on. A year passed unnoticed until autumn rains returned. One afternoon, Emily left school just as a downpour began. She huddled under the bus shelter, but spray from speeding cars soaked her anyway.
A lorry pulled over. A young man jumped out, holding his jacket overhead as he dashed to her.
“Get in. I’ll drive you home.”
Shivering, she ducked under the oil-and-petrol-scented jacket. The cab was warm and dry.
“Michael,” he said.
“Emily.”
“Where to?”
She gave her address. Michael talked easily—how he’d become a driver to support his mum, took odd jobs for extra cash. “Need a lift? Just call.”
“You in school or working?” he asked.
“I teach.”
“Nice,” he said. “I’ll pick you up after class. All the kids will envy you.”
He was cheerful. That evening, he called, inviting her to the cinema.
“Sorry, I can’t. My dad’s in a wheelchair.”
“Then I’ll come by. Just to see you.”
“Why?”
“I like you. Simple as that.”
“What if you’re not my type?”
“Not handsome enough? Ashamed of a lorry driver?”
“I didn’t mean—fine, I’ll come out.”
The next day, his horn blared outside.
“Who’s that? A suitor?” her mother guessed.
“Just a friend. Can I go out for a bit?”
“Before he wakes the whole street.”
Michael came nearly every day. He’d wait after school, drive her home, share tea and sandwiches from his thermos.
“Your admirer’s persistent. Good catch,” her mother remarked.
“He’s not a catch.”
“You’ll regret it later. All your friends are marrying. Surely he’s serious?”
“Mum, I’ve got marking to do.”
Michael had mentioned marriage, but Emily stalled. Her heart didn’t race when she saw him. She disliked how often he talked about money.
“Don’t worry, I’ve saved for the wedding. Autumn’s busy—firewood, harvest hauling. You won’t starve with me.” He hugged her in the cramped cab. “I’ll buy a proper car by winter.”
No flowers (“waste of money”), no restaurants—just thermos tea and his mum’s sandwiches. When she was away, he’d invite Emily over. Their rare intimacy was mechanical. She invented excuses.
She didn’t love him. But where else would she meet someone? He didn’t drink or smoke. Her mother approved. So she said yes—but made him wait till summer.
Winter usually dragged, but spring came fast. After the May bank holiday, Michael insisted on filing for a marriage license. He’d handle everything—she just needed a dress.
One day, hurrying home, she bumped into a man in the dim hallway.
“Emily?”
She turned.
“Paul. Don’t you recognize me?”
Her childhood friend—once a skinny boy, now tall and broad-shouldered. His parents used to bring him to his gran’s for summers. They’d played by the river, picked strawberries, sworn to stay together forever.
“I’m visiting Gran. Seventy-fifth birthday. You’re beautiful.”
She blushed. “You’ve changed too.”
“Working or studying?”
“Teaching. Dad’s in a wheelchair.”
“Gran told me. No chance he’ll walk?”
“He could, if he tried. But he drinks.” Her voice cracked.
“And you?”
“I’m getting married,” she blurted, then flushed.
“Who’s the lucky man?”
“I’ve got to go.” She fled upstairs.
Now Michael’s honking embarrassed her. She glared as she climbed into the lorry.
“Where? I’m in slippers!”
“My place. Mum’s away. I’ve missed you.”
“Michael, we agreed—not before the wedding!”
“I’m tired of waiting. Just an hour.”
At his flat, he pushed her toward the bedroom. His hands were everywhere—until his phone rang.
“It’s your dad.” He put it on speaker.
“Michael, is Emily there? Your mum collapsed. They took her to hospital.”
She broke free, but he grabbed her wrist.
“Let me go!”
“You heard—she’s in hospital. What good will you do? They won’t let you in tonight.” He kissed her neck.
“Stop! My dad’s alone!” She shoved him. He stumbled, hitting the shoe rack.
She ran—no phone, no coat, just slippers and her dressing gown. Tires screeched. Paul’s car pulled up.
“Get in!”
“How did you—?”
“I saw you leave. The ambulance door was open—your dad told me where he lived.”
At the hospital, Paul persuaded the guard to let them in.
“Your mum had a stroke,” the doctor said. “We caught it in time.”
On the drive back, she sobbed.
“Why didn’t your fiancé bring you?”
She wiped her tears. “I think it’s over.”
He pulled over, kissed her salty cheeks. The world melted away.
The next day, she texted Michael: *No wedding.*
He came, but she refused to get in the lorry. She gave back the ring, then went to her mum.
“Where’s Michael?”
“I don’t love him. It’s off.”
“Because of Paul? He’ll leave. Think carefully.”
“I have. Better alone…”
Paul returned to London but came back two weeks later. He’d arranged for her dad’s surgery. Six months later, at their wedding, her father stood on crutches.
