I called off the wedding.
Yes, you read that right. Two weeksactually, a full fourteen daysbefore the date wed been debating, budgeting, and pinning on Pinterest, everything was set down to the last detail: the banquet hall in Bath was booked, a string quartet had rehearsed the playlist, the photographer had a minutebyminute schedule, and my ivory dress sat in the wardrobe, exactly the one Id fallen in love with at first sight. Wed even found a cosy little flat in Brighton, bright and snug, ready for us to move into straight after the ceremony and start our new life.
Why did I pull the plug?
Because the groomtobe suddenly decided he might raise his handagainst me.
Dont get me wrongwere both fairly proper folk. We stick to modesty, respect all the unwritten rules, and never even brushed hands during our courtship. Our meetings were polite, respectable, strictly within the bounds of tradition. I honestly believed Id found a man capable of building a family on dignity, kindness and mutual support.
Then, on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday, the stress of the endless planning finally snapped something in him. He raised his voicean abrupt, shrill shout that was nothing like his usual measured tone. A heartbeat later, a sharp slap landed on my cheek, the kind that makes everything go black for a second.
Yes, you heard correctly.
The same graduate of the prestigious Eton scholarship programme, the model student, the respectable academic everyone praised, actually struck his fiancée just two weeks before the altar. A perfect gentleman on paper, but reality had other plans.
His true colours burst forth, colours that had probably been hidden beneath a veneer of respectability, piety and deference. In a flash of anger, he revealed himselfnot the protector Id imagined, but a potential bully.
Am I somehow glad it happened? Absolutely. It sounds terrible, but I think I was saved. Better to spot a monster before saying I do than to spend a lifetime tiptoeing around his every breath, fearing the next blow.
Now, the aftermath? Its a whirlwind of emotions, accusations, endless questions, and nonstop gossip from neighbours and acquaintances. All I can say isthis is crushing. Im shattered. I need therapy. Sometimes I think the only cure would be a permanent sleep, a way to halt the relentless ache.
Instead of support, Im bombarded with the sense that Im now the familys disgrace, as if Ive ruined everything, as if it was my fault for not tolerating it. My soul feels like its been smashed into a thousand tiny shards. I drift through a fog, as if life is happening to someone else. It hurts at the deepest core of my identity. I even catch myself wishing to vanish, to melt into the air, to disappear from a world so scant on compassion.
And thats why Im writing this confession. Theres a point to it. If, even a minute before the vows, you sense the man youre about to marry cant keep his temper in a crisisif you see flashes of anger, if theres any sliver of chance he might raise a handstop. Pull the plug. Hit the brakes.
It doesnt matter how much money youve spentwhether its a few hundred pounds on the dress, a thousand on the venue, or more. It doesnt matter how many relatives gasp, how many friends look shocked, or how many neighbours mutter. Its far wiser to pause for a second than to become the woman who gets battered from day one of marriage and possibly for the rest of her life.
As for me? Im not asking for pity. I would be grateful for a prayer or two, anything that might help me piece myself back together, to feel whole again someday. To eventually build the kind of family every woman dreams ofa home where love is gentle, not fearful; where a hand offers support, not a slap.
Maybe, one day, Ill believe in love again.
