Emily and James were at her best mate’s wedding. The reception was winding down when the host announced the bouquet toss. Emily hadn’t planned to join in—she was standing off to the side—until she saw the flowers flying straight at her. She caught them without thinking. The guests cheered, and James dramatically clutched his head. Classic bloke behaviour—they always ham it up when their girlfriends catch *that* bouquet.
Emily was heading back to her table when she overheard a conversation through the half-open door. She recognised James’ voice.
“Mate, you’re done for now!” someone laughed. “Emily’s practically at the registry office in her head. She caught the bouquet!”
“Easy come, easy go,” James snorted. “I’m not getting married for at least five years. I’ve got it good as it is.”
“Bet you’ll be the one dragging her down the aisle in six months. If not, she’ll find someone better off, and you’ll be left with takeaway boxes and unwashed socks.”
“Mark my words, we’ve been living together a year—she’s not going anywhere. She’ll keep cooking my meals and doing my laundry.”
Emily froze. Her whole body went cold. She didn’t make a scene—didn’t want to ruin her friend’s big day. She grabbed her coat, tossed the bouquet in the bin by the door, and called a cab.
She and James had been splitting everything down the middle—rent, bills, groceries. He’d tried pushing all the housework onto her, but she’d shut that down fast: if she played housewife, he’d better play breadwinner. That didn’t fly. So, grudgingly, he’d started doing dishes and tidying up.
But to his mates, he acted like some alpha whose woman happily folded his socks.
Back at the flat, Emily quietly pulled out her suitcases. Most of her things were still at her parents’, so packing took half an hour. In the kitchen, she dumped the bin, cleared the fridge, and poured tomato soup all over it. She even thought about soaking his t-shirts in the mess but decided against it.
Then she left.
A week later, everything changed. She was offered a transfer to head office—a proper career move. And… a test showed two lines. Pregnant.
She had to decide fast: career or motherhood. The doctor confirmed it was early—she had time to think. Emily chose her career. Booked the appointment, sorted the transfer, took a couple of days off, and slept. Just slept. No one’s socks to pick up.
When her mate Sophie returned from her honeymoon, she dropped by to check on her.
“You two were perfect together! I thought you’d be ring shopping by now.”
“I left. He’s not the one. And ‘perfect’? That was just how it looked from the outside.” Emily hesitated, then—surprising herself—spilled everything. The pregnancy, the choice.
Sophie nodded, promised to keep quiet. But, as it goes, she told her husband. Who told James.
He turned up at Emily’s parents’ house.
“How could you? That was my child too!”
“And you are—what, exactly? My husband? We were only together in your head and on your sofa.”
“I’d have helped! Financially! With raising it!”
“Did you ask if I wanted to rely on handouts? If I wanted to be a single mum? I chose me. You’re too small a man to be a father.”
“Why’d you trash the fridge?”
“Sorry, I was in a mood. Cheers, James.”
He watched her walk away. Two days later, he’d be stuck paying for dinner for their whole group—a bet’s a bet.
And yeah. Some people really do dig their own graves with their tongues.
