The Husband Brought Another
Molly scrutinised her outfit with a critical eye… The white dress, hastily bought for a pittance at a sale, seemed far too plain. The lace she had so carefully chosen—though not examined properly—now looked rather cheap.
“Oh well,” she thought, “As long as Arthur likes it.” She sighed. She would wear this dress to her wedding. Arthur… He had been her dream, her love at first sight. Though, if she were honest, he was far from the image of a prince on a white steed. More like a burly Viking—unkempt blond hair, broad shoulders, and a roguish glint in his cornflower-blue eyes.
Molly had always believed love would come suddenly, just like in the novels. She wouldn’t settle for anything less.
The shrill ring of her phone snapped her back to reality. Of course, it was her mother, likely urging her to call the whole thing off.
“Molly, my love, listen to me, listen to those who’ve lived longer than you!”—naturally, her mother had been crying for days—“A wedding after just a month? You barely know him!”
How many times would she have to hear this?
“True love doesn’t need time,” Molly said dreamily. “It’s love at first sight! Just like in films!”
“Films tell fairy tales, Molly!” her mother shot back. “And fairy tales always end with ‘they lived happily ever after.’ Curtains! They never say what comes next. But in real life, after ‘happily ever after,’ there’s work, bills, children… Do you even know where he works? What his plans are?”
Molly faltered. She and Arthur had never spoken of such things. Their conversations had been full of breathless declarations, nothing more.
“He… mentioned something about logistics,” she hedged, avoiding specifics—lest her mother start digging.
Where he worked… Thank goodness she hadn’t asked about his hobbies. All Molly knew was that Arthur enjoyed nights with friends over pints and gaming until dawn. But did that matter when love filled every corner of her heart?
Her father took the phone next.
“Molly, what future can you have with a man you don’t know? You can’t even say where he works!”
“But Gran and Granddad married just as quickly, and they lasted a lifetime!”
“Lightning rarely strikes twice,” her father sighed. “For most, it’s pure luck.”
“Then I’ll be lucky!”
“Molly!”
“Sorry, I have to go. Arthur’s here.” She hung up before they could argue further.
Arthur arrived in a rumpled navy suit, ill-fitting and hastily bought. The jacket sagged at the shoulders, and the trousers pooled awkwardly over his shoes. In his hands was a bouquet of daisies, tied with a plain ribbon—wildflowers, probably plucked from some roadside. But to Molly, they were the loveliest in the world.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded, her hands trembling with nerves. With a deep breath, she stepped out, leaving doubts and reason behind. She was walking toward her destiny—or so she believed.
The registry office was brisk, almost dreary. A weary clerk mumbled through the formalities. Arthur fumbled the ring onto her finger, and they smiled for the few flashes of cameras—his relatives only. Molly’s parents had stayed away, unwilling to endorse her stubbornness.
Afterwards, they returned to Arthur’s flat—now hers too. A mismatched spread awaited: sandwiches, a bowl of salad, sliced tomatoes. His relatives—Auntie Joan, who had cooked resentfully; Uncle Bert, nursing a hangover; and cousin Annie, watching with envy—offered hollow congratulations before slipping away, their faces grim as if attending a wake.
When the last guest left, Arthur exhaled in relief.
“Well, that’s that,” he said. “Now we’re husband and wife! Forever!”
He spun her around, and Molly laughed despite herself.
Yet by evening, the farce began—just as her mother would have predicted. Bored after sending off his family, Arthur declared that celebrating with them was one thing—but with friends? Entirely another. Without another word, he vanished into the night, leaving Molly alone in their new home.
“I’ll be back soon! The lads insisted—how could I say no?” he called, already halfway out the door.
“Soon” stretched until dawn.
He returned blind drunk, remembering nothing. Slurring apologies, he collapsed onto the bed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow. Molly wordlessly draped a blanket over him.
Morning brought Arthur’s hangover and Molly’s crushing disappointment. She knew she’d made a terrible mistake. Yet admitting it—to herself or her parents—was unthinkable. This was love, wasn’t it? Love could change him. Love worked miracles. She’d mould him into the devoted husband he ought to be.
Life with Arthur was a rollercoaster—reckless, unpredictable. He might vanish for a weekend without warning, blow his wages on a gaming console, or rage over unwashed dishes—only to shower her with affection moments later.
Once, he bought an expensive abstract painting—chaotic shapes that meant nothing to Molly.
“It’s a masterpiece!” he insisted. “You just don’t understand art!”
(Neither did he. It was impulse, nothing more.)
Molly bit her tongue. That money could have fixed the broken washing machine.
Arthur worked logistics for a small firm—uninspired but steady. He despised his boss, dreamed of striking out on his own—yet never did. Molly, a hairdresser, kept their flat tidy, cooked his meals, and pretended theirs was a normal marriage. But the pretence frayed daily.
She pleaded with him—marriage meant responsibility, not reckless spending. He’d shrug, calling her a nag, or vow to change—yet never did.
One final straw came when Arthur drained their account on nonsense.
“How are we meant to survive?” she screamed. “I’m always scrambling—why must I pay for your recklessness?”
“I work hard! I deserve some fun!”
“And what am I? A machine?”
“Then treat yourself!” he retorted. “Take a dance class!”
(With what money?)
Where had her fairytale gone?
On their first anniversary, Molly prepared a surprise—candles, fine china, champagne. She hoped Arthur would remember, would gift her jewellery.
Instead, he arrived late, drunk—and not alone.
Beside him stood a fragile woman—wide-eyed, trembling.
“Molly, this is Alice,” Arthur slurred. “She’s… expecting.”
Alice looked mortified. Molly’s world tipped.
“I—I didn’t know how to tell you,” he mumbled. “She’s got nowhere to go. She’ll stay with us. I’ll fix this.”
Molly wanted to scream. To shatter everything.
Instead, she walked past him—out the door.
No coat, no plan. Just the need to escape.
She boarded a bus to her grandmother’s village.
Gran was stunned but didn’t scold. “Molly? What’s happened?”
Through tears, Molly confessed—Arthur’s betrayals, Alice, her broken dreams.
“I thought love conquered all,” she wept. “But he never loved me. I wanted what you and Granddad had.”
Gran sighed. “Oh, Molly… Not all fairy tales are true.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your grandfather and I… There was no great love. I married him because it was time. He was steady. Kind. But my heart… belonged to another.”
Molly stared. Her perfect grandparents—a lie?
“Why tell me now?”
“Because pretending breaks you,” Gran said softly. “If you’re unhappy—leave. Your grandfather never did. Don’t repeat his mistake.”
The next morning, Molly returned to the flat—only long enough to pack a bag.
“I’m leaving,” she told Arthur.
“Where?”
“You.”
Months later, she reunited with an old classmate—Jack. They married years later, unhurriedly. He loved her—flaws and all.
***
Arthur wed Alice, but the marriage fared no better. He drank. Spent recklessly. Alice, too, left him.
Once, Alice called Molly—unexpected, awkward.
“I… wanted to apologise. For that night.”
“It’s done,” Molly said gently.
“I thought I could change him,” Alice whispered. “I couldn’t.”
“Neither could I.”
