A Husband Brought Another Woman Home
Emily anxiously adjusted her dress—a white, bargain-bin froth of lace she’d grabbed in a frenzy during a summer sale. It looked cheap now under the flat morning light, the stitching uneven where she hadn’t inspected it properly. “Doesn’t matter,” she told herself. “As long as Oliver likes it.” She exhaled sharply. This was her wedding dress. Oliver… he had been her dream, love at first sight. Not that he resembled any fairy-tale prince—more like a disheveled rugby lad, all untamed sandy curls and shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of her expectations. His cornflower-blue eyes had sparkled with mischief when they first met.
Emily had always believed love would arrive like this—sudden, dazzling, straight out of a rom-com. Anything less was unacceptable.
Her phone buzzed, dragging her back to reality. Of course, it was Mum again, probably urging her to cancel.
“Em, love, listen to me, listen to people who’ve lived longer than you!” Mum’s voice was thick with tears—she’d been crying nonstop for days. “A wedding after just a month? You barely know him!”
How many times could they have the same conversation?
“Real love doesn’t need more than that,” Emily murmured dreamily. “I’ve told you a thousand times. It’s fate. Like in the films!”
“Films are fairy tales, love!” Mum snapped. “And fairy tales end at ‘happily ever after.’ They don’t show the washing-up, the bills, the sleepless nights with a colicky baby! Do you even know where he works? What his plans are?”
Emily faltered. She and Oliver had never discussed it. Their entire relationship was a whirlwind of breathless declarations.
“He’s… something in logistics,” she hedged, avoiding specifics. If Mum dug deeper, she’d uncover nothing.
Work, hobbies—what did any of it matter when her heart was full? Oliver’s idea of a good time was pints with mates and late-night gaming sessions. Did it make him any less perfect?
Dad took over the call.
“Emily, how can you build a life with someone you don’t know?”
“But Gran and Grandad did! They married after two weeks!”
“Lightning doesn’t strike twice, love.” His sigh crackled down the line. “That was luck. Blind, stupid luck.”
“And I’m lucky too.”
“Emily!”
“Sorry—Oliver’s here. Got to go.” She hung up before they could protest further.
Oliver arrived in a navy suit, wrinkled and too tight. The jacket strained at his shoulders; the trousers pooled over his scuffed shoes. In his hands was a fistful of daisies, tied with a scrap of ribbon—plucked from some roadside verge, probably. To Emily, they were the most beautiful flowers in the world.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded, her fingers trembling as they stepped into the registry office. The registrar droned through the vows, her voice monotone. Oliver fumbled the ring onto Emily’s finger. A handful of his relatives snapped photos. None of hers came—her parents had refused, furious at her stubbornness.
Afterwards, they returned to Oliver’s flat, now hers too. Auntie Joan had laid out a spread: sausage rolls, a bowl of potato salad, sliced tomatoes. The guests—Auntie Joan, perpetually hungover Uncle Alfie, Oliver’s sharp-eyed cousin Lucy—congratulated them half-heartedly before shuffling out. Their faces were grim, as if they’d attended a wake, not a wedding.
When the door finally closed, Oliver exhaled.
“There. Married. Forever.”
He spun her around the room, and she laughed, giddy.
Three hours later, the circus began.
Bored after the guests left, Oliver announced that celebrating with family was one thing—but with mates? That was proper. And with that, he vanished into the night, leaving Emily alone in their new home.
“Back soon! Can’t let the lads down, can I?” he called over his shoulder.
“Soon” stretched into dawn.
He returned legless, reeking of lager, and collapsed onto the bed without another word. Emily tucked the duvet around him silently.
Morning brought Oliver’s hangover and Emily’s slow-dawning regret. She’d made a mistake. But admitting it—to herself, to her parents—was unthinkable. Love conquered all, didn’t it? She could change him.
Life with Oliver was a merry-go-round of chaos. He’d vanish for weekends without warning. Blow his wages on a new console or some absurd gadget, leaving them skint. Shout over unwashed dishes, then shower her with affection minutes later.
Once, he bought an incomprehensible modern painting—splatters of geometry that meant nothing.
“A masterpiece!” he crowed. “You just don’t get art.”
Neither did he. It was a whim.
Emily stared at the mess of lines, thinking of the broken washing machine they couldn’t afford to fix. She said nothing.
Oliver worked logistics for a freight company. He hated it, but the pay was steady. He dreamt of starting his own business—talked big, but never acted.
Emily worked at a hair salon. She kept the flat tidy, cooked meals, pretended they were normal. But the façade crumbled daily.
She begged him to grow up, to think beyond his next pint. He’d shrug her off—calling her a nag—or promise to change. Nothing did.
One night, after he blew their rent money on a ridiculous gaming headset, she snapped.
“We can’t live like this!”
“Chill out. I work hard. I deserve fun.”
“And what am I? Your maid?”
“Then treat yourself! Go to those dance classes you wanted!”
She’d wanted. But there was never enough left for her.
Where had the man she’d fallen for gone?
On their first anniversary, Emily set the table with candles, made steak, bought champagne. She hoped Oliver would remember.
He came home late, pissed, with a woman in tow.
“Emily, this is Lily. She’s… expecting.”
“She’s what?”
“It just happened, alright?” Oliver swayed. “She’s got nowhere to go, so she’ll stay here. I’ll sort it. Love you, yeah?”
Lily looked mortified.
Emily wanted to scream. To smash something. Instead, she walked straight past Oliver—out the door, onto the street, still in her pyjamas. She didn’t look back.
She took the bus to Gran’s.
Gran blinked at the unexpected guest. “Emily? What’s happened?”
The story spilled out—Oliver’s recklessness, Lily, the crushing realisation.
“I thought love fixed everything,” Emily sobbed. “But he never loved me. Not really. I wanted what you and Grandad had.”
Gran sighed. “Oh, love… That wasn’t what you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was no great romance. I married him because it was time. He was kind. But my heart…” She hesitated. “There was someone else. A married man. Your grandad knew. He stayed anyway.”
Emily reeled. Her perfect love story—a lie.
“Why tell me now?”
“Because you can’t live a life that isn’t yours. Don’t settle.”
The next morning, Emily returned to the flat just long enough to pack a bag.
“I’m leaving,” she told Oliver.
“Where?”
“Away from you.”
She moved back with her parents. To her surprise, they didn’t gloat.
Months later, she ran into an old schoolmate, James. They took it slow. He loved her—flaws and all.
As for Oliver? He married Lily. It didn’t last.
One day, Lily called.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “For that night. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s done,” Emily said softly.
Lily’s voice cracked. “He never changed. I thought I could fix him.”
“I did too.”
A pause. Then, quietly: “We were both fools, weren’t we?”
