She Chose Herself. And You? A Bet on Someone Else’s Socks
Emily and James were at her best friend’s wedding. The celebration was winding down when the MC announced the bouquet toss. Emily had no intention of joining in, standing off to the side—until she saw the flowers sailing straight toward her. Instinctively, she raised her hands, and the bouquet landed in her palms. The guests applauded, while James clutched his head in exaggerated dismay. It was expected—men often played up the drama when their girlfriends caught “the one.”
Emily was already heading back to her table when she overheard a conversation from behind a slightly ajar door. James’s voice was unmistakable.
“Well, hold onto your hat now!” someone cackled. “Emily’s already mentally at the registry office. She caught the bouquet!”
“She’ll cling as long as it suits her,” James scoffed. “I’ve got at least five years before I even think about marriage. I’m comfortable as it is.”
“Bet you’ll be the one dragging her down the aisle in six months. If not, she’ll find someone with more going for them. And you’ll be left with takeaway containers and mismatched socks.”
“Mark my words, mate. We’ve been living together a year—she’s not going anywhere. She’ll keep cooking my meals and doing my laundry.”
Emily froze. A cold numbness settled in her chest. She refused to make a scene—she wouldn’t ruin her friend’s wedding. Grabbing her coat, she tossed the bouquet into the bin by the entrance and called a taxi.
She and James had split everything down the middle—rent, bills, groceries. He’d tried shifting all the housework onto her, but she’d made it clear: if she played house, he played bank. That didn’t fly. Reluctantly, he started doing his share—washing up, tidying the flat.
Yet to his mates, he played the “alpha” whose woman was overjoyed to sort his socks.
Back at the flat, Emily wordlessly hauled out her suitcases. Most of her things were still at her parents’, so packing took half an hour. In the kitchen, she upended the rubbish bin, dumped everything from the fridge, and drowned it all in leftover stew. For a moment, she considered soaking his T-shirts in the mess—but thought better of it.
And then she left.
A week later, everything changed. She was offered a transfer to head office—a real career leap. And then… two lines on the test. Pregnant.
She had to decide fast—career or motherhood. The doctor confirmed it was early; she had time. Emily chose her career. She booked the appointment, finalised her transfer, took a couple of days off, and slept. Just slept. No one else’s socks to worry about.
When her friend Charlotte returned from her honeymoon, she came straight over.
“You two were perfect! I thought you’d be ring shopping by now.”
“I left. He wasn’t the man I thought. And ‘perfect’? That was just the illusion.” Emily hesitated, then, surprising herself, confessed everything—the pregnancy, the choice.
Charlotte nodded, swore secrecy. But, as these things go, she told her husband. And he told James.
He turned up at her parents’ house, seething. “How could you? That was my child too!”
“And who are you to me? A husband? We were only ever together—in your flat, and in your head.”
“I would’ve helped! Financially! With raising them!”
“Did you ask if I wanted to rely on handouts? If I wanted to be a single mother? I chose myself. You—you’re too small a man to be a father.”
“Why the hell did you pour rubbish in the fridge?”
“Well, I was in the mood. Cheers, James.”
He watched her walk away. In two days, he’d be footing the bill for their entire friend group—a bet was a bet.
And yes. People really do dig their own graves with their tongues.
