“Always the Backup Plan”
“Emily! What on earth are you thinking?!” shouted the woman on the other end of the line, her voice shaking with outrage. “This is my wedding! Mine! I’ve been waiting for this day for a year and a half!”
“Sweetie, please, just listen!” came the calm reply of her friend. “Edward rang me himself last night. What was I supposed to do—turn him down? We were together back in uni—you know that!”
Emily slumped onto the sofa, the phone trembling in her hand.
“But the wedding’s next Saturday! The dress is bought, the guests invited, the venue booked! How could you do this, Charlotte?”
“What else could I do? He said he’d made a mistake. That he loved me, not you. Emmy, I’m sorry, but you can’t help who you fall for…”
Emily threw the phone onto the sofa and burst into tears. Outside, a dreary October drizzle tapped against the window. On the table lay a folder filled with marriage papers, and in her wardrobe hung the white dress she’d bought with tears of joy in her eyes.
Her mum came in, hearing the sobs, and sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“What’s the matter, love?”
“Edward… Edward’s marrying Charlotte,” Emily choked out. “They’re filing for the marriage license tomorrow. Our wedding was next week!”
Margaret sighed and pulled her daughter closer.
“Then it wasn’t meant to be, sweetheart. He wasn’t the one for you. Better to find out now than spend a lifetime regretting it.”
“But why, Mum? Why am I always the backup plan?” Emily sniffled. “At school, Tom dated me until some new girl showed up. At college, Liam courted me for months before leaving me for a coursemate. And now Edward…”
Her mother stroked her hair in silence. She remembered how Emily had glowed while planning the wedding, how happy she’d been trying on that dress. She’d never been Edward’s biggest fan—something about him had always set her on edge. Too smooth, too handsome, too good with the right words. But his eyes… they were empty.
“Mum, what do I do now? How do I face people? Everyone knew about the wedding! Auntie Rose even bought tickets down from Manchester, Uncle Rob took time off work…”
“What can you do? You keep living. You’re young, beautiful, clever. The right man will come along.”
Emily looked up, her face streaked with tears.
“What if he doesn’t? I’m twenty-seven, Mum. All my friends are married with kids. I’m just left looking like a fool on dates, hoping every time…”
“He’ll come,” Margaret said firmly.
But she didn’t tell her daughter the whole truth—that she’d lived through the same heartache once, until she met Emily’s dad. He wasn’t the handsomest or richest, but he loved her properly.
The doorbell rang, startling them both—what if it was Edward, come to say he’d changed his mind?
But it was only Mrs. Jenkins next door, holding a jar of homemade jam.
“Oh, Emily, love! I heard… Don’t you go worrying over that bloke! Not a good sort, your Edward. Knew it the first time I saw him—shifty eyes, sweaty palms. No proper man at all.”
“Mrs. Jenkins, please,” Emily said tiredly.
“No, you need to hear this! You’re a lovely girl—hardworking, kind. He’s a fool not to see it. Listen, pet—I’ve got a nephew, Danny. Divorced, mind, but a good lad. Works at the factory, doesn’t drink, loves kids. You want me to introduce you?”
Emily shook her head.
“Not now, Mrs. Jenkins.”
After the neighbour left, Emily sat by the window, watching the rain, wondering why men always treated her like a temporary stop, until someone “better” came along.
At school, there’d been Tom—football captain, every girl’s crush—who’d picked quiet Emily for a while, until a new, flashy girl named Lily arrived.
At uni, clever, handsome Liam had flirted with her for months before admitting there was a “promised girl” back home.
Edward had come into her life last year—tall, sharp-suited, working in finance. He’d swept her off her feet—flowers, restaurants, talks of marriage within months.
And now, Charlotte—his old flame—had returned from America, and suddenly, Emily wasn’t enough.
“He said I wasn’t *ambitious* enough,” she told Danny later, over coffee.
Danny—plain, kind, divorced—rolled his eyes. “Rubbish. You’re lovely. He’s an idiot.”
They met more often—films, walks, talking for hours. He introduced her to his eight-year-old son, Jack, who took to her instantly.
“Dad, will Aunty Emily be our new mum?” the boy once asked.
A year later, Danny proposed—no grand gestures, just quiet certainty.
“And what if I’m just another backup plan?” Emily asked.
“You’re not,” he said simply. “With you, I feel at home.”
Their small wedding was perfect. No fuss, no glitter—just warmth.
And when Edward called a year later—”We split up. Fancy meeting?”—Emily smiled.
“No,” she said. “Goodbye, Edward.”
Then she went home—to Danny, Jack, and love that wasn’t second-best.
