“Have you already decided for me?!” — A Story of One Failed Wedding
Evelyn sat at a cozy table in the heart of Manchester’s finest restaurant, waiting for her fiancé, Anthony. He was restless, checking his phone every few minutes, his fingers tapping impatiently against the screen.
“Anthony, you’ve been acting odd all evening. What’s going on?” she asked, careful to keep the unease from her voice.
“Just wait a little longer. We need my parents first…” he muttered, avoiding her gaze.
“Your parents?”
“Yes. And a couple of others. This isn’t just dinner—we’ve got something important to discuss.”
Her grip tightened around her wineglass. She’d known Anthony for six months, long enough to recognise the edge in his voice when he had “serious plans.” And they never ended well.
Ten minutes later, Anthony’s parents—Henry and Margaret—arrived, trailed by two strangers in crisp suits.
“Meet David and Claire,” Anthony announced, forcing a smile. “They’re interested in your flat. Want to lease it long-term.”
“My… flat?” Evelyn nearly dropped her fork.
“Of course. They’re serious—willing to pay £1,500 a month. After the wedding, we’ll move in with Mum and Dad. Plenty of room in their house in the countryside. No sense leaving your place empty when it could be earning us money!”
Her fingers turned to ice. Oblivious, Anthony pulled papers from his briefcase.
“I’ve already spoken to the bank. We’ll transfer your mortgage to both our names—lower interest rate, easier payments.”
“You… decided all this?” Her voice wavered. “Without even asking me?”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic!” Margaret cut in. “Anthony’s thinking of your future. You’re practically family now!”
David and Claire exchanged a glance.
“Excuse me,” Claire said coolly, “but is the flat actually in your name?”
“Well, not yet, but—”
“Then we’ll have to decline,” David said, standing. “We weren’t aware the owner wasn’t part of this discussion. Good evening.”
They left, the silence at the table thick with tension.
“Brilliant,” Margaret snapped. “You scared off respectable tenants with your little tantrum, Evelyn!”
“Tantrum?” Evelyn rose slowly. “This isn’t a tantrum. It’s my right to decide what happens to my home.”
“Are you serious?!” Anthony paled. “We planned this!”
“*You* planned it. For both of us. Without me. And I won’t build a future with someone who thinks that’s acceptable.”
“Evelyn, be reasonable—”
“No. The wedding’s off.”
She walked out without looking back—and never answered another one of his messages.
That night, curled on her windowsill with a steaming cup of tea, one thought steadied her:
*”Better alone—but with self-respect—than with someone who doesn’t understand it.”*
