Emily and James were at her best friend’s wedding reception. The festivities were winding down when the host announced the bouquet toss. Emily had no intention of joining in and lingered at the back, but suddenly—the flowers sailed straight toward her. She caught them on reflex. The crowd cheered, while James clutched his head in exaggerated horror. Predictable—men always put on a show when their girlfriends catch *that* bouquet.
Emily was heading back to her table when she overheard a conversation through the half-open door. James’s voice.
“Well, mate, you’re doomed now!” someone cackled. “Emily’s already mentally picking out wedding rings. She caught the bouquet!”
“She’ll stick around as long as she’s useful,” James snorted. “I’m not getting hitched for at least five years. Why bother? She cooks well enough.”
“Bet you’ll be at the registry office within six months. Or she’ll find someone with a better job. Then *you’ll* be stuck doing your own laundry.”
“Mark my words—we’ve lived together a year. She won’t go anywhere. Someone’s got to make dinner and wash the socks.”
Emily froze. Her blood ran cold. No scene—she wouldn’t ruin her friend’s big day. She grabbed her coat, dumped the bouquet in the bin by the door, and called a cab.
She and James split their flat equally—rent, bills, groceries. He’d tried nudging all the chores onto her, but she’d shut that down: *If I’m the housewife, you’re the sugar daddy*. That didn’t fly. So James sulkily loaded the dishwasher and occasionally hoovered.
Meanwhile, he bragged to his mates about being a *real bloke* whose girlfriend *loved* folding his socks.
Back at the flat, Emily wordlessly dragged out her suitcases. Most of her things were still at her parents’, so packing took half an hour. In the kitchen, she upended the bin, emptied the fridge, and poured pickle juice over the lot. Briefly considered dunking his T-shirts in the mess—then thought better of it.
And left.
A week later, everything changed. She was offered a promotion—London office, real career leap. Then… two lines on the test. Pregnant.
A choice: career or motherhood. The doctor confirmed it was early. Time to think. Emily chose the job. Booked the appointment, signed the transfer, took a few days off, and slept. Just slept. No one’s socks to sort.
Her friend Sophie, back from honeymoon, dropped by:
“You two were perfect! Thought you’d be ring-shopping by now.”
“I left. He’s not the one. And ‘perfect’? Only from the outside.” Then, hesitating, she spilled it all—the pregnancy, the choice.
Sophie nodded, swore secrecy. But—as these things go—told her husband. Who told James.
He turned up at her parents’ house:
“How could you? That was my child too!”
“And *you* are… what, exactly? My fiancé? We were only together in *your* head—and *your* bedsheets.”
“I’d have helped! Money! Raising it!”
“Did you *ask* if I wanted handouts? To be a single mum? I chose *me*. You’re too small a man to be a father.”
“…Why’d you pour bin juice in the fridge?”
“Well. I was in a mood. Cheers, James.”
He watched her go. Two days later, he’d be buying dinner for their entire friend group—a bet’s a bet.
And, well. Some men really do dig their own graves with their tongues.
