**No Wedding After All**
Emily graduated from teacher training college with top honors, dreaming of attending university. But her dreams were cut short when her father had a terrible accident and spent months in hospital. When he was finally discharged, her mother took leave from work to care for him at home until he adjusted to life in a wheelchair.
There was no university in their town—she’d have to move to the nearest city. Emily decided to defer for a year. She couldn’t abandon her parents in such a difficult time and took a job at the local primary school instead.
The doctors had been optimistic—if her father followed his physiotherapy, took his medication, and exercised, he might walk again. Her mother sold their holiday cottage in Cornwall to pay for specialists and treatment. But despite their efforts, her father never stood from that wheelchair.
“Enough,” he snapped one day. “Stop wasting money. It’s pointless. I won’t walk again.”
His temper grew worse—sharp, suspicious, snapping at every little thing. Her mother bore the worst of it. If he called, she had to drop everything and rush to him—whether he wanted water, a question answered, or just to talk. Meanwhile, dinner burned on the stove.
“David, you could manage the kitchen yourself. Now the potatoes are ruined,” her mother sighed.
“My *life* is ruined, and you worry about potatoes? Easy for you to say—you can still walk. Is it so hard to bring me a glass of water?” he’d retort.
Sometimes, in a fit of anger, he’d hurl a mug or plate. Worse, he’d demand vodka, and when drunk, he’d lash out at her mother as if *she* had caused the accident.
“Dad, don’t drink. It won’t help. Find something else—chess, books?” Emily pleaded.
“What do you know? Trying to take my last bit of joy? Books are full of lies. Keep them. Life isn’t like that. I’m good for nothing now,” he’d grumble.
“Mum, stop buying it for him,” Emily begged.
“If I don’t, he’ll scream. It’s hard for him. What else can we do?” her mother would whisper.
“He needs to *try*, not drink! The doctors said he could walk—he just won’t. He enjoys making us run in circles,” Emily fumed.
She pitied him, but life was unbearable. One evening, she returned from school exhausted, her throat sore, longing to rest. Yet her father kept calling—for water, for company. Finally, she snapped.
“Enough! I’m worn out. You have a wheelchair—*you* go to the kitchen and drink yourself stupid. You’re not the only one like this. Hundreds live like you—some even work, compete in the Paralympics. And you can’t wheel to the kitchen? Go on, manage. I have lessons to plan.” She stormed off.
She heard the wheels scrape over the floor, the clink of a glass in the kitchen, the pause outside her door. She braced for him to burst in, shouting—but the wheels moved on. From then on, he became more self-sufficient.
On warm days, she’d leave the balcony door open. Her father would sit there, “taking the air.” The door was too narrow for his chair, and rebuilding it was beyond their means.
“Put me in a home,” he muttered once, drunk.
“Don’t say that! You’re *alive*. That’s what matters,” her mother insisted.
“You’ll get tired of changing my bedpan. Pity will keep you trapped. Why stick with a cripple? You’re still young…”
And so, life trudged on. Autumn returned, grey and wet. One afternoon, Emily left school just as cold rain began pelting down. She huddled under the bus shelter, but the wind drove the rain sideways. Cars splashed through puddles, drenching waiting passengers. She shivered like a ruffled sparrow.
Then a lorry pulled up. A man jumped out, holding his jacket overhead, and dashed to her.
“Get in. I’ll drive you home.”
Chilled to the bone, she ducked under the jacket—its scent of petrol and engine oil oddly comforting—and clambered into the warm cab.
“Michael,” he said.
“Emily.”
“Emily… Where to?”
She gave her address. As they drove, Michael explained how he became a lorry driver.
“Mum raised me alone. Time I took care of her. A neighbour got me a job in his garage. After the army, I got my HGV license. Pays well—and there’s always side jobs. Need anything moved? Just call.”
“And you? Work or study?” he asked.
“I teach at the primary school.”
“Good on you,” he grinned. “I’ll pick you up after. Everyone’ll envy you—biggest rig in town!”
She laughed, disarmed by his ease. What if she *did* need help? She gave him her number. He called that evening, asking her to the cinema.
“Sorry, I can’t. My dad’s in a wheelchair.”
“What if I swing by your place?”
“Why?”
“Want to see you. Fancy you,” he admitted bluntly.
“Maybe you’re not my type. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Not handsome enough? Ashamed of a driver?” he shot back.
“Sorry—didn’t mean that. Fine, I’ll come out.”
The next day, his horn blared below her window.
“Who’s that racket? A suitor?” her mother guessed.
“Not a suitor. Just a friend. Be right back.”
Michael came almost daily. Sometimes he’d collect her from school. They’d sit in the cab, sipping tea from his thermos, eating sandwiches his mother had packed.
“Quite the eager beau,” her mother remarked one evening as the lorry rumbled away.
“He’s not a beau.”
“Your friends are marrying. You’ll blink, and youth will be gone. He doesn’t drive here for nothing.”
“Mum, I’ve got marking.” She fled to her room.
Michael brought up marriage often, but Emily stalled. Her heart didn’t race when she saw him. She disliked how he fixated on money.
“Don’t worry—I’ve saved for the wedding. Plenty of work in autumn—firewood, harvest hauling. You won’t go hungry with me,” he’d say, squeezing her in the cramped cab. “I’ll buy a proper car by winter.”
No flowers (“waste of money”), no restaurants (“thermos tea’s better”). When his mother visited her sister, he’d invite Emily over. Their rare intimacy was pragmatic. She invented excuses to avoid it.
She didn’t love him. But where else would she meet someone? Michael didn’t drink or smoke. Her mother nudged her. Reluctantly, she agreed—but made him wait till summer.
Winter usually dragged, but this year, spring came swiftly. After the May bank holiday, Michael insisted they register at the council office. He’d handle everything; she just needed a dress.
One evening, rushing home, she collided with a man in the dim hallway.
“Emily?”
She turned.
“Paul? Is that you?”
Her childhood friend—once a scrawny boy—was now tall, broad-shouldered, handsome. His parents used to bring him to his grandmother’s each summer. They’d played in the river, sworn childish oaths to stay together forever. Then, one year, he stopped coming.
“You’ve… changed,” she stammered, heart fluttering.
“Gran’s birthday. Seventy-five. You look gorgeous.”
She blushed. “You work in London?”
“Finance. And you?”
“Teaching. Dad’s in a wheelchair since his crash.”
“Gran mentioned. No chance he’ll walk?”
“He could—if he tried. But he drinks instead.” Her voice cracked.
“And you? Happy?”
“Getting married,” she blurted, then flushed.
“Who’s the lucky man?”
“Sorry—Mum’s waiting.” She fled upstairs, feeling his gaze.
Now Michael’s evening visits mortified her. She’d scowl, sliding into the cab, imagining Paul watching.
“You’re engaged, remember? Saw you with Paul again,” her mother said pointedly.
“We’re just friends.”
But Paul sent flowers, sweet texts. Her heart soared at his name. Beside him, Michael seemed dull, calculating. She began avoiding him.
One night, Michael honked until neighbours shouted. Emily stormed out in slippers.
“Where are we going? I’m not dressed!”
“My place. Missed you.”
“Michael, we agreed no sex before—”
“I’m tired of waiting.” He groped her as they drove.
Then his phone rang—her father. “Emily there? Your mum’s collapsed. Ambulance took her.”
She bolted. He caught her wrist. “You can’t help. Stay.”
She shoved him back—hard. He stumbled, and she ran. Outside,With Paul’s steady hand on her shoulder and her father taking his first unsteady steps down the aisle, Emily finally understood that love was never about settling—it was about finding the one who would run through the storm with you.
