Emily and James were at her best friend’s wedding. The celebration was winding down when the host announced the bouquet toss. Emily hadn’t planned to join in, lingering at the edge of the crowd, until she saw the flowers sailing straight toward her. Instinctively, she lifted her hands—the bouquet landed in her palms. The guests cheered, and James dramatically clutched his head, playing up the moment. It was typical—men loved to exaggerate when their girlfriends caught *that* bouquet.
As Emily turned back to her table, she overheard voices from behind a half-open door. James’s laugh was unmistakable.
“Better brace yourself, mate!” someone crowed. “Emily’s already picturing the registry office. She caught the bouquet!”
“Easy come, easy go,” James snorted. “I’m not getting married for at least five years. I’ve got a good thing going as it is.”
“Bet you’ll be dragging her down the aisle in six months. If not, she’ll find someone with a proper career. You’ll be left with a pile of laundry and Pot Noodles.”
“Mark my words—we’ve lived together a year. She’s not going anywhere. She’ll keep cooking my meals and washing my socks.”
Emily froze. A cold numbness spread through her. She didn’t make a scene—she wouldn’t ruin her friend’s day. Instead, she grabbed her coat, tossed the bouquet into a bin by the exit, and called a cab.
She and James had split everything equally—rent, bills, groceries. He’d tried to shove all the housework onto her, but she’d drawn the line: if she was the housewife, he’d better be the sugar daddy. That didn’t fly. Reluctantly, he’d started doing his share of dishes and tidying.
Yet to his mates, he played the alpha, boasting about how she happily sorted his socks.
Back at the flat, Emily packed in silence. Most of her things were still at her parents’, so she was done in half an hour. In the kitchen, she emptied the bin, dumped the fridge’s contents into the sink, and drowned it all in leftover stew. For a moment, she considered tossing his shirts into the mess—but thought better of it.
And then she left.
A week later, everything changed. She was offered a transfer to the London office—a real career move. And then… two lines. Pregnant.
A decision had to be made: career or motherhood. The doctor confirmed it was early—time to think. Emily chose the career. She went through with the procedure, signed the transfer papers, took a few days off, and slept. Just slept. No one’s socks to sort.
Her friend Charlotte, back from honeymoon, came to visit.
“You two were perfect together! I thought you’d be ring shopping by now.”
“I left. He wasn’t the one. And ‘perfect’? Only from the outside.” Emily hesitated, then, surprising herself, told the whole truth—the pregnancy, the choice.
Charlotte nodded, swore secrecy. But as these things go, she told her husband. Who told James.
He showed up at Emily’s parents’ house.
“How could you? That was my child too!”
“And who are you to me? My husband? We were only *together* in your head and on your sofa.”
“I would’ve helped! Financially! With raising it!”
“Did you ever ask if I wanted to depend on your handouts? If I wanted to be a single mother? I chose myself. You’re too small a man to be a father.”
“Why’d you wreck the fridge?”
“Sorry. Felt like it. Goodbye, James.”
He watched her go. In two days, he’d owe their whole group a pub meal—a bet was a bet.
And yes. People really do dig their own graves with their tongues.
