An Unpleasant Aftertaste: Why Marina Called Off the Wedding When Illya’s Smelly Socks Spoiled Everything – A Tale of Love, Dirty Dishes, and Disillusionment in Modern England

Author Walton MerrittReading 8 minViews 3

A lingering discomfort

Its over, we are not having any sort of wedding! exclaimed Emily.

Wait, whats happened? Tom was taken aback, Everything seemed fine!

Fine? Emily let out a sarcastic laugh, Well, yes… fine, I suppose. But She paused for several seconds, frantically trying to find the words. In the end, she blurted out the truth, Your socks always stink! Im not willing to live with that for the rest of my life!

So thats exactly what you told him? Emilys mum gasped when her daughter announced she was withdrawing the notice at the registry, Unbelievable!

Why? shrugged Emily, the would-be bride. Its true, isnt it? Dont tell me you havent ever noticed it.

I have, obviously, her mum admitted, a little flustered, but its just so humiliating. I thought you loved him. Hes not a bad bloke. And smelly socksthat can be sorted.

How? Emily retorted. Teach him to wash his feet? Change socks more often? Use deodorant? Mum! Listen to yourself! I was supposed to be getting married! To rely on a man, not adopt a grown boy!

Then why did you let it get this far? Why submit the wedding forms in the first place?

That was all you, Mum! Toms a good, kind lad. I really like himring any bells? And those other things: Youre already twenty-seven, darling. High time you got married and gave me some grandchildren. Why so quiet? Wasnt it like that?

Well, Em, I just didnt think you were still unsure. I thought you two were serious, her mum replied, You know, Im actually glad I wasnt mistaken about you: youve thought it through and made your choice. Its just that this his socks stinkits a bit much. Its not like you at all.

I did it deliberately, Mum. In words hed understand. So theres no way back.

At first, Tom seemed quietly amusing and a bit dorky to Emily. He always wore jeans and the same t-shirt. He didnt spout wisdom about Picasso, but he could talk for hours about classic films, his eyes lighting up as he did.

Emily found it easy and comfortable being with him.

That comfort was exactly what drew her in, weary as she was from dramatic relationships and the hunt for the one.

After two months filled with cinemas and coffee shops, Tom, his cheeks red, suggested, Fancy coming over to mine? Ill make you some dumplings. Homemade!

The offer was delivered so warmly and intimately that Emilys heart fluttered. Those words: homemadeutterly disarming.

So, she said yes

Toms flat did not impress Emily.

It wasnt dirtyjust chaotic, tasteless, and neglected. Bare grey walls, an old battered sofa with a single cushion instead of proper pillows. The floor scattered with piles: boxes, books, ancient magazines. A pair of trainers thrown in the middle. And, as if that wasnt enough, the air was stale, heavy with dust and an odd mustiness.

The room seemed more like a stopover, as though someone meant to leave soon but just hadnt done so yet.

Well, what do you think of my fortress? Tom spread his arms wide, grinning without a hint of embarrassment. He seemed genuinely proudand totally oblivious to its strangeness.

Emily forced herself to smile back; she liked him and didnt want an argument.

Then they moved to the kitchen. It wasnt much better: a table covered in a thin layer of dust. Dirty plates in the sink, mugs with grim black stains inside. A saucepan showing its age. Emilys eyes landed on the kettle.

She wondered, I bet it had a colour once

Her mood plummeted.

Emily listened, distracted, as Tom enthusiastically recounted stories, trying to make her laugh. But when he offered her a plate of dumplings, she firmly refused, putting it down to her diet.

There was absolutely no way shed eat anything prepared in that kitchen.

Back home, Emily reflected on her visit.

At first glance, Toms flat seemed a minor issuehe lived alone and didnt quite have the knack for household chores. So what?

But amid all the clutter and neglect, Emily saw something elsesomething big and unsettling: How could anyone live like this? Not out of laziness, but because to him, this was normal!

It left an unpleasant feeling that lingered long after.

Later, Tom visited Emily. He proposed properly and even gifted her a ring. They lodged the notice at the registry, and the parents began wedding preparations.

It was lovely, being a bride-to-be. But, whenever Emily found herself alone, thinking of Tomthe way he always tried to be sweet, cooked his dumplings, and told jokesshe kept seeing that kettle, with its mysterious colour.

She realised: it wasnt just a kettle. It was the smoking gun! It said everything about Toms attitude towards life, keeping house, himselfand, most likely, her.

One day, she imagined their morning together and recoiled.

Shed wake up, wander into the kitchen, and see a half-drunk mug of tea and toast crumbs. And when she said, Love, could you clean this up, please? Tom would look at her, as bemused as he was gazing round his flat, not understanding what she meant. No arguments, no shoutinghed just not get it. Shed spend every day explaining, tidying, reminding. And her affection would slowly wither under the constant, invisible pricks hed never notice.

Meanwhile, her mum was over the moon about the wedding.

Marriage

All the ease and warmth Emily felt with Tom began to evaporate, replaced by a heavy, sticky anxiety.

Em, Tom asked her almost daily, worry clouding his face, Were alright, arent we? We love each other, dont we?

Of course, Emily replied, feeling something break inside her.

Finally, Emily couldnt keep it in and confided everything to her friend, pouring out all her fears.

So whats the big deal? Sophie was baffled. Bit of dust, a weird kettle My husband leaves his trail in the kitchen as if a tanks been through, never notices a thing. Men ignore that sort of stuff!

Exactly! Emily whispered back. They never notice. And he never will. But I always will. For the rest of my life! And itll kill me, slowly but surely.

She didnt blame him. Tom had been honest. He lived in a different worlda world where a dirty plate in the sink is perfectly fine. For Emily, though, it screamed indifference and a lack of understanding.

She realised it wasnt about cleanlinessit was about fundamentally different ways of seeing the world. The crack that formed in her mind would only grow, ending in a chasm between them.

It was better to stop everything now than fall into that chasm years later, when it would be too late.

All she needed was the right moment

Emily and Tom were invited to a party.

They arrived, left their coats in the hallway, took off their shoes

Walked into the room

A foul smell trailed behind them.

It took Emily a moment to clock where it was coming from.

And when she didand realised everyone else had tooshe felt so ashamed she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. Without a word, she dashed into the hallway, hurriedly got dressed, and left.

Tom rushed after her, caught up, and grabbed her hand. She spun round and virtually spat at him, almost in contempt:

Thats it! Theres going to be no wedding!

There really was no wedding.

Emily is sure she did the right thing, and she doesnt regret it.

And Tom

He still doesnt get it. What was the problem anyway? So his socks stink! He could just take them offAnd so, life moved on. The registry never called again; the caterer wished Emily well, and Tom quietly returned the suit hed nervously purchased. For weeks, the city buzzed with other peoples weddings and other peoples dreams. Emily found herself walking, just walking, along the riverside, letting the wind snatch away old plans and anxious hopes.

Freedom felt strangeawkward, bright, and exhilarating. She could breathe, finally, with no lingering dust or melancholic traces of stale air. Instead of picturing toast crumbs on a forgotten plate, she saw morning sunlight shimmering on clean water, the beginning of something only she could shape.

At night, in her own carefully ordered kitchen, Emily smiled and raised a glass to the life shed reclaimednot perfect, but hers alone, clutter-free and honest.

And somewhere, in a flat with grey walls, Tom laughed at an old film and tossed his socks into a corner, never once wondering if theyd ever smell like regret.

The Borrowed Dress There once lived on our street, just three houses down from the surgery, a woman named Hope—her surname was Carter, a common name, and she herself was quiet, almost invisible, like the noon shadow of a birch tree. Hope worked in the village library. For months, her salary went unpaid, and when it did come, it was ridiculous—galoshes, cheap spirits, or stale rice full of bugs. Hope had no husband. He’d gone up north chasing big money when their daughter was still in nappies and never returned. Maybe he found a new family, maybe he vanished in the wilds—no one knew. Hope raised her daughter, Lucy, on her own. She worked herself to the bone, staying up late at night behind her sewing machine. She was quite the dressmaker—making sure Lucy had tights without holes and hair ribbons just as pretty as the other girls’. Lucy grew up—a firecracker, beautiful beyond words. Eyes as blue as cornflowers, hair like wheat, slim and proud. Pride was her vice. She was ashamed of their poverty, felt bitter. She was young, she wanted to shine and go dancing, but she was stuck with her patched-up, third-hand boots. Then came the spring of her final year at school. That special time when girls’ hearts flutter and dreams take wing. One day, Hope stopped by my house for a blood pressure check—early May, the cherry blossom just budding. She perched on my sofa, thin, her shoulders poking through her worn-out jumper. “Val,” she whispered, nervously wringing her fingers. “It’s bad. Lucy won’t go to the leavers’ party. She’s throwing fits.” “Why?” I asked, wrapping the cuff on her thin arm. “She says she’s too ashamed. Lenny Zott, the Chairwoman’s daughter, has a fancy imported dress straight from London, frilly and grand. But I… I don’t even have money for cotton, Val. We finished up all our winter supplies.” “So what will you do?” I asked. “I’ve already thought of something.” Hope’s eyes suddenly gleamed. “Remember those thick satin curtains Mum kept in the chest? The colour’s lovely. I’ll take the old lace off a collar and sew it with beads. It won’t just be a dress—it’ll be a masterpiece!” I just shook my head. I knew Lucy’s ways. She didn’t want a ‘masterpiece’, she wanted labels and luxury, something straight from the boutiques. But I said nothing. A mother’s hope is blind but sacred. All through May, I saw the lights on at the Carters’ house well past midnight. The sewing machine clattered like a machine gun: tak-tak-tak… Hope was working magic. She slept three hours a night, her eyes red, her hands pricked raw, but she was happier than ever. Disaster struck about three weeks before the party. I popped round to deliver some ointment—Hope had been complaining about her back from bending over so much. I walked into the room and—God above!—spread out on the table wasn’t just a dress but a dream. The fabric shimmered, matte and elegant, a silvery-rose shade like sunset before a storm. Every seam and bead stitched with such care that the whole thing seemed to glow. “Well?” Hope smiled, shy and childlike, hands trembling, fingers wrapped in plasters. “It’s fit for a queen,” I said honestly. “Hope, you have golden hands. Has Lucy seen it?” “Not yet—she’s at school. I want it to be a surprise.” Just then, the front door banged open. Lucy stormed in, flushed and furious, tossed her bag aside. “Lenny’s bragging again!” she screamed. “She’s got shiny new patent shoes! What am I going to wear—holey trainers?!” Hope stepped towards her, held up the dress: “Sweetheart, look—it’s ready.” Lucy froze, her eyes went wide, swept over the dress. I thought she’d be thrilled. But instead, she exploded. “What is this?” Her voice was icy. “These—they’re Gran’s old curtains! I recognise them! They reeked of mothballs for a century in the chest! Are you having a laugh?!” “Lucy, it’s real satin, look how it falls—” Hope’s voice faltered as she reached out. “Curtains!” Lucy screamed so loud the windows shook. “You want me to walk on stage in a bloody curtain? So the whole school will point and snicker!? ‘Pennyless Carter wrapped up in granny’s drapes!’ I won’t wear it! Never! I’d rather go stark naked, rather drown myself, than wear that hideous thing!” She snatched the dress, threw it to the floor, stamped on it—crushing the beads and her mother’s hard work. “I hate you! I hate this poverty! I hate you! Other mums know how to hustle, how to provide, and you—you’re weak, not even a proper mum!” The silence that followed was thick, terrifying… Hope went so pale she was the same colour as the whitewash on the hearth. She didn’t shout or cry. She just bent down, like an old woman, picked up the dress, brushed off an invisible fleck of dust, and hugged it to her chest. “Val,” she said to me in a whisper, not meeting Lucy’s eyes, “please go. We need to talk.” I left. My heart ached; I wanted to grab a belt and give that silly girl what for… By morning, Hope was gone. Lucy ran to me at the clinic at lunchtime. She was a wreck; all pride had vanished, replaced by raw fear. “Aunt Val… she’s gone.” “What do you mean, gone? Is she at work?” “Not at the library—locked up. Didn’t come home last night. And…” Her lips trembled, her chin quivered. “And the icon’s gone.” “What icon?” I nearly dropped my pen. “St Nicholas the Wonderworker. The old silver-framed one from the corner. Gran always said it saved us from the war. Mum always said, ‘That’s our last loaf, Lucy. For the darkest day.’” A chill ran through me. I knew what Hope had done. Back then, antique icons fetched big money from collectors, but it was risky—they could lie, rob, or even bury you in the woods. And Hope—she was as trusting as a child. She’d gone to town to sell it, hoping to buy her daughter a ‘fancy’ dress. “She’ll be impossible to find,” I whispered. “Oh Lucy, what have you done…” Three days we lived in hell. Lucy moved in with me—couldn’t sleep alone in that empty house. She barely ate, just sipped water. Sat on the porch, eyes glued to the road, listening for engines. Every time, strangers. “I did this,” she said at night, curled in a ball. “My words killed her. Aunt Val, if she comes back, I’ll beg on my knees. I just want her home.” On the fourth day, towards evening, the phone rang at the clinic. Sharp, urgent. I grabbed the receiver. “Hello! Surgery!” “Valerie?”—a man’s voice, weary, clipped. “It’s the district hospital. Intensive care.” My knees buckled, I collapsed in a chair. “What?” “Woman admitted three days ago, no ID. Found at the train station, heart attack. Came round briefly, mentioned your village and your name. Hope Carter. Do you know her?” “She’s alive?!” I shrieked. “For now. But it’s critical. Come quickly.” Getting there was a saga. The bus had gone. I pleaded with the council leader for a car. They gave us the old Land Rover with Pete the driver. Lucy was silent all the way. Clung to the door handle, her knuckles white, staring ahead. Her lips moved—praying, maybe for the first time in her life. The hospital smelled of trouble. Disinfectant, medicine, and that quiet that only exists where life and death wrestle. The young doctor met us, eyes red from sleepless nights. “To Carter? Five minutes only—and no tears! She mustn’t get upset.” We slipped into the ward. Machines beeped, tubes spun everywhere. And there lay Hope… God, they put makeup on the dead—her face was grey as ash, black rings under her eyes, and so tiny under the NHS blanket, like a child. Lucy saw her and couldn’t breathe. She fell to her knees at the bedside, buried her face in the sheets, her shoulders shaking soundlessly. She was terrified to cry, as the doctor had warned. Hope’s eyes cracked open. Bleary, unfocused, took time to recognise us. Then her bruised hand barely moved, resting on Lucy’s head. “Lucy…” she whispered, as soft as dry leaves. “Found you…” “Mum,” Lucy sobbed, kissing her mother’s cold hand. “Mum, forgive me…” “Money…” Hope’s finger traced the blanket. “I sold it, darling… In my bag… Take it. Buy your dress… With glitter… like you wanted…” Lucy lifted her head, looked at her mum as tears streamed down. “I don’t want a dress, Mum! Please, I don’t! Why, Mum? Why?!” “To make you beautiful…” Hope smiled so faintly. “So you wouldn’t be less than anyone…” I stood at the door, throat tight, couldn’t breathe. Looked at them and thought: this is motherly love. It doesn’t judge or weigh. It gives everything, to the last drop of blood, to the final beat of the heart. Even when her child wounds her. The doctor shooed us out after five minutes. “That’s enough—she’s exhausted. The worst has passed, but her heart’s very weak. She’ll be in a long time.” So began long days of waiting. Nearly a month Hope spent in hospital. Lucy visited daily. School in the morning, exams, then hitchhiking to town after lunch. She cooked broths herself, grated apples. The girl changed—unrecognisable. All her pride was gone. The house was spotless, the garden weeded. Every evening she came to my house and reported on her mother’s progress, eyes grown up. “You know, Val,” she said once, “after I yelled at her… I sneaked off and tried on the dress. It’s so soft. Smells of Mum’s hands. I was a fool. I thought if I wore a fancy dress, people would respect me. Now I know—if I lose Mum, I won’t care about any dress in the world.” Hope began to recover. Slowly, painfully, but she pulled through. The doctors called it a miracle. I reckon Lucy’s love dragged her back from the edge. She was discharged just before prom. Still weak, barely walking, but desperate to get home. Prom night arrived. The whole village gathered at the school. Music blared—Madonna and Pet Shop Boys on the loudspeakers. Girls lined up in all sorts. Lenny Zott stood there in her frothy, store-bought dress, looking down her nose and brushing off dance partners. Then the crowd parted. Silence fell. Lucy entered, leading Hope by the arm. Hope was pale, limping, leaning heavily but smiling. And Lucy… my dears, I’ve never seen such beauty. She wore that very dress. Made from the curtains. In the twilight, the ‘dusty rose’ colour glowed with an unearthly light. The satin draped perfectly over her figure, showing just what ought to be shown and hiding what should not; beads and lace shone on her shoulders. But the dress wasn’t the star. It was how Lucy walked. She walked like a queen. Her head held high, but none of the old pride in her eyes. Just calm strength. She led her mother gently, as though cradling fine china. As if to say, “Look, this is my mum. And I’m proud of her.” Some joker lad, Colin, piped up: “Oi, look, the curtain’s come for a stroll!” Lucy turned slowly. She looked him dead in the eye—calm, firm, not angry, almost pitying. “Yes,” she said loudly, so everyone could hear. “My mum made it. And it’s worth more to me than gold. You’re a fool, Colin, if you can’t see real beauty.” The boy flushed and shut up. Even Lenny in her big posh frock seemed to wilt, faded fast. Because it’s never clothes that make the person, never. Lucy didn’t dance much that night. Mostly she sat with her mum on a bench—covered her with a shawl, brought water, held her hand. Such warmth in that touch, such tenderness, it made my eyes water. Hope looked at her daughter, face aglow. She knew everything she’d done had been worthwhile. That the icon really had worked wonders—not with money, but by saving a soul. Many years have passed. Lucy moved to London, trained as a cardiologist. She became a top specialist, saving people’s lives. She brought Hope to live with her, cherishes her deeply. They’re the closest of souls. And that icon? Word has it Lucy tracked it down years later. Searched every antique shop, spent a fortune, but finally bought it back. It hangs now in their flat, pride of place, a lamp burning before it always… I look at young people today and think—how much we hurt those closest in pursuit of others’ approval, demanding, stamping our feet. Life’s short as a summer night. And you only get one mum. While she’s alive, we’re children, guarded from the chill winds of eternity. When she’s gone—we’re scattered to the seven winds. Cherish your mothers. Call them now if they’re still here. If not—just remember with love. They’ll hear, wherever they are. If you liked this story, come by again—subscribe to the channel. We’ll share memories, tears, and the delight of simple things. Every new subscriber to me feels like a mug of hot tea on a long winter’s night. I’ll be waiting for you.

The Awakening That Swept Him Away: For twenty-seven years, Michael lived like a rushing spring — loud, wild, and carefree. Known throughout the village for his impulsive energy, he would rally mates for midnight fishing trips and lend a hand to neighbours at dawn as if nothing had changed. “That Michael, reckless as can be, never a worry on his mind,” the old folks would sigh. His mother lamented his thoughtless ways, while his peers, settled with families and homes, shrugged off his carefree spirit. Then, quietly as the first autumn leaf, twenty-seven arrived. The cock’s crow became not a call for frolic, but an admonition. The hollow feeling he’d never noticed suddenly roared in his ears. The venerable family house begged for steady hands. His father, bent after years of farm work, spoke only of hay cutting and cattle feed prices. It was at a country wedding that Michael’s turning point came. He joked, danced tirelessly, the life of the party. In the corner, his father quietly conversing with an old neighbour, watched him with weary sadness. Michael saw himself anew — no longer the boy but a man dancing to someone else’s tune, aimless, rootless, and empty. He woke the next day changed. The reckless lightness vanished, replaced by a gentle weight, a sense of grown-up calm. No more aimless visits; he took up his late grandfather’s abandoned plot by the woods, cleared it, chopped trees. His mates mocked his clumsy carpentry, but he learned. Every penny went into nails, slates, glass. He laboured silently from sunrise to sunset, falling asleep with a sense of achievement. Two years passed. On the plot stood a rough but sturdy timber home, the air thick with pine and newness. The garden bore its first crops; Michael slimmed down and grew thoughtful. His father visited, offered help, praised the work. “Now you need a wife for this house,” he said. The revelation arrived on a summer morning. Michael was about to set off for firewood when she appeared — Julie, the neighbour’s girl he’d known from childhood, now a beautiful young woman back from teacher training. Her presence stunned him; once a skinny tomboy, now graceful and thoughtful. He found himself tongue-tied, heart pounding. She greeted him kindly, her voice rich and warm. She walked on down the dusty lane and he watched, struck by a blinding certainty — “She’s the one.” He didn’t know that for Julie, this morning was a long-awaited one. She’d watched him for years, longing for his attention, returning to the village to teach in hope. Her quiet fondness was now rekindled by his changed gaze. Michael’s life gained new meaning. He began building not just for himself but for a future with Julie. He secretly met her along her way, asked about her students, brought gifts of hazelnuts. She saw him transform from reckless to reliable, and her long-held affection turned into hope. Late that autumn, under heavy British skies, with the house nearly finished, Michael awaited her at the gate, clutching a bunch of bright red rowanberries. “Julie,” he stammered, “the house is built, but it’s empty. Would you come inside one day? I… I want to share my life with you.” She took the berries, pressed them to her heart, and replied, “I’ve watched this house grow from its first beam. I always wondered what it would look like inside, and when you’d finally invite me. I’ve dreamt of this. I’d love to…” Her eyes flashed with that childhood spark he’d missed — the spark that had waited years to ignite. Thank you for reading, and for your support. Wishing you luck and happiness!