**Diary Entry – Emily Carter**
“I was always the backup plan.”
“Emily! What on earth are you doing?!” a woman shrieked down the phone, her voice trembling with fury. “Do you understand this is *my* wedding? *Mine*! I’ve been waiting for this day for a year and a half!”
“Darling, sweetheart, please try to see it from my side!” came the calm, measured reply of her supposed best friend. “Daniel rang me last night—*himself*! Was I meant to say no? We were together at uni—you *know* that!”
Emily sank onto the sofa, the phone shaking in her grip.
“But the wedding’s *this Saturday*! The dress is bought, the guests invited, the venue booked! Chloe, how could you?”
“What was I meant to do? He said he’d realised his mistake—that it was *me* he loved, not you. Em, I’m sorry, but you can’t force the heart…”
Emily hurled the phone onto the cushions and dissolved into tears. Outside, a dreary October drizzle streaked the windows. On the table lay a folder of marriage registration forms, and in the wardrobe hung the ivory dress she’d bought with happy tears in her eyes.
Mum stepped in, hearing the sobs, and sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“What’s happened, love?”
“Daniel… Daniel’s marrying Chloe,” Emily choked out. “They’re submitting the paperwork tomorrow. *Our* wedding was supposed to be next week!”
Margaret Carter sighed deeply and squeezed her daughter tighter.
“Then it wasn’t meant to be, sweetheart. He wasn’t yours to keep. Better now than a lifetime of regrets.”
“But *why*, Mum? Why am I always the backup plan?” Emily sniffled. “At school, it was Mark—used me till that new girl arrived. At college, Steve sweet-talked me for months, then ran off with a coursemate. Now Daniel…”
Mum stroked her hair silently. She remembered how Emily had glowed while dress-shopping, how she’d pinned magazine cut-outs of honeymoon spots. She’d never warmed to Daniel—too polished, too smooth with his compliments. But his eyes? Empty as a shop window.
“Mum, what do I do now? How do I face people? Everyone knows about the wedding! Auntie Jane’s already booked train tickets from Manchester, Uncle Paul’s taken leave…”
“What *can* you do? Keep living. You’re young, clever, kind. The right one will come.”
Emily lifted her tear-streaked face.
“What if he doesn’t? I’m twenty-seven, Mum. All my friends are married with babies. And here I am, still trawling through dates like some naïve…”
“He’ll come,” Mum said firmly.
What she didn’t say was that she’d lived it too—been someone’s placeholder until she met Emily’s father. Not some dashing bloke, just a steady electrician who’d loved her properly till his last breath.
The doorbell cut through her thoughts. Emily’s breath hitched—was it Daniel? Had he changed his mind?
Neighbour Auntie Linda stood there, clutching a jar of homemade jam.
“Emily, pet! Heard the news… Don’t you fret! That Daniel’s a waste of space. Knew it the moment I clapped eyes on him. Shifty gaze, clammy hands. No backbone, that one.”
“Auntie Linda, please,” Emily sighed.
“Oh, but someone’s got to say it! You’re a proper catch—hardworking, kind-hearted. Rare as hens’ teeth these days. His loss! Listen—my nephew, Tom. Divorced, but decent. Works at the factory, doesn’t drink, dotes on his kids. Fancy an introduction?”
Emily shook her head.
“Not now, Auntie Linda.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll mention you anyway. Might bump into you himself.”
After she left, Emily stared at the rain, questions gnawing at her. Why was she always the interim—the cosy stopgap until someone ‘better’ arrived?
At school, she’d adored Mark Thompson—captain of the football team, every girl’s crush. Yet he’d picked *her*, the quiet bookworm. Six months of sweet nothings, homemade valentines, meeting his parents… till Jessica transferred in—all designer jeans and glossy lips. Mark dumped her with a shrug: *”We’re young, yeah? You’ll find someone.”*
At nursing college, it was Steve—charming, ambitious, from a ‘good family’. Three months in, she discovered his year-long engagement to a girl from Leeds. *”We’re practically promised, Em. You and I were just… fun.”*
Daniel came along eighteen months ago at a mutual friend’s birthday. Tall, sharp-suited, a finance manager. Lavished her with roses, Michelin-starred dinners, whispered about rings by month six. *”You’re the one, Emily. Kind, patient, a proper homemaker.”* She’d believed him—picked out flats, planned Cyprus for their honeymoon.
Then Chloe resurfaced—his uni ex, now some high-flying ad exec back from New York. First, it was *”Ran into her, bit of nostalgia.”* Then late ‘work meetings’, fewer calls. Last night, the bomb dropped: *”We’re too different, Em. I need someone more… driven. More exciting.”*
*”Chloe, you mean?”*
His blush was confirmation enough.
She stood before the mirror now—ordinary face, average figure, high-street clothes. Maybe that was it? Too plain. Too easy.
Mum brought in tea and sandwiches.
“Eat something, love. You’ll need your strength.”
“Mum… why did Dad marry you?”
Margaret stilled, knife hovering over the bread.
“Why d’you ask?”
“Just wondering. You were beautiful, university-educated. Dad was…”
“Your dad was *good*,” Mum said softly. “Loved me properly. Not for what I was—just *me*. Felt it every day.”
“There was someone before him, wasn’t there?”
A pause. Then Mum clasped her hand.
“Yes. Promised me the world. Turned out his parents had ‘better’ lined up. I was just… entertainment.”
“How’d you get past it?”
“Time. Then your dad—brought me daisies even when skint. Said I was the loveliest woman alive. And you know what? With him, I *felt* it.”
Emily blinked. She’d never considered Mum as a woman with her own heartbreaks.
“Regret not marrying the first one?”
“Not once. Thirty happy years with your dad. That bloke? Five divorces. Always chasing ‘better’.”
—-
At work the next day, colleagues tiptoed around her—sympathetic looks, hushed *”You’ll meet someone proper.”*
Dr. Tom Wright from Oncology lingered after lunch.
“Emily… heard what happened. If you ever need to talk—or help with anything.”
She frowned. They’d barely spoken before.
Minutes later, he admitted: *”Went through a divorce last year. Felt like the sky had fallen. It… passes.”*
By Friday, they were sharing coffee. Tom—thirties, average-looking but warm-eyed—had an eight-year-old son, Ben. *”Good kid. Lives with his mum, but we’re close.”*
They met the following weekend—cinema, then a café. No grand gestures, just tea and lemon drizzle cake.
*”When my ex left,”* Tom admitted, stirring sugar, *”turns out she’d been seeing someone three years. Felt like a right idiot.”*
*”And now?”*
*”Now I see we wanted different things. Clean break was kinder.”*
Daniel had waxed lyrical about ‘shared ambitions’. Tom simply said: *”You’re kind. Grounded. What more could a bloke want?”*
Soon, they were strolling Brighton Pier, Tom teaching her to fish (badly). Introduced her to Ben—a cheeky, freckled boy who asked bluntly: *”Dad, is Emily gonna be my new mum?”*
A year later, Tom proposed quietly over shepherd’s pie. *”Not a backup, Em. You’re home.”*
At their registry-office wedding, Emily wore cream, not white. No puffed sleeves or diamond tiaras—just joy.
Then, a call:
*”Emily… heard you’re married. Me and Chloe split. Fancy a drink?”*
She glanced at her ring, at Tom laughing with Ben in the garden.
*”No, Daniel. Goodbye.”*
And meant it.
