Elizabeth and Edward attended the wedding of her dearest friend. The festivities were winding down when the master of ceremonies announced the bouquet toss. Elizabeth had no intention of joining in and stood aside, but then—quite unexpectedly—the flowers sailed straight toward her. She raised her hands instinctively, and the bouquet landed in her grasp. The guests applauded, while Edward clutched his head in theatrical dismay. It was a familiar sight—men often put on such displays when their sweethearts caught “that” bouquet.
Elizabeth was already returning to her seat when she overheard a conversation through the half-open door. She recognised Edward’s voice.
“Now you’re in for it!” someone laughed. “Elizabeth’s already picturing the registry office. She caught the bouquet!”
“Stuck now, unstuck later,” Edward smirked. “I’ve no plans to marry for at least five years. She keeps me fed well enough as it is.”
“Bet you’ll be leading her down the aisle in six months. If not, she’ll find someone better off, and you’ll be left with your pots and laundry.”
“Mark my words! We’ve been living together a year—she won’t go anywhere. She’ll keep cooking my meals and washing my shirts.”
Elizabeth froze. A cold numbness spread through her. She refused to make a scene—her friend’s day wouldn’t be spoiled. Collecting her coat, she tossed the bouquet into the nearest bin and hailed a cab.
She and Edward had shared a flat, splitting everything down the middle—rent, bills, even groceries. He’d tried shifting all the chores onto her, but she’d made it clear: if she played housewife, he’d best play provider. He hadn’t liked that. Reluctantly, he’d started doing his share—washing dishes, tidying up.
Yet to his mates, he played the part of the “lad,” bragging about how she happily handled his socks.
Back at the flat, Elizabeth wordlessly fetched her suitcases. Most of her things were at her parents’, so packing took no time. In the kitchen, she emptied the rubbish bin, cleared the fridge, and poured pickle brine over the mess. For a second, she considered soaking his shirts in it—then thought better of it.
And then she left.
A week later, everything changed. She was offered a transfer to the head office—a true step forward. And then… two lines appeared. Pregnant.
The decision was urgent: career or motherhood. The doctor confirmed it was early—she had time to choose. Elizabeth chose her career. After the procedure, she finalised the transfer, took a few days’ leave, and slept. Just slept. Without anyone’s socks in sight.
Her friend Charlotte, back from her honeymoon, came to visit.
“You two were perfect! I thought you’d be picking out rings by now.”
“I left him. He wasn’t the one. And ‘perfect’—that was only how it looked from outside.” She hesitated, then, to her own surprise, told Charlotte everything. The pregnancy. The choice.
Charlotte nodded, swore secrecy. But, as often happens, she told her husband. Who told Edward.
He turned up at her parents’ house.
“How could you? That was my child too!”
“And who are you to me? My husband? We were only ever together in your mind—and on your sofa.”
“I’d have helped! With money! Raising it!”
“Did you ask if I wanted to depend on handouts? If I wanted to be a single mother? I chose myself. You’re too small a man to be a father.”
“Why did you pour rubbish in the fridge?”
“Suppose I was in the mood. Goodbye, Edward.”
He watched her go. In two days, he’d be paying for dinner for their whole group—a bet was a bet.
And yes. Some do dig their own graves with their tongues.
