The Wedding That Wasn’t to Be
Emily had graduated from teacher training college with honours, her heart set on university. But fate had other plans. Her father was in 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 while he adjusted to life in a wheelchair.
Their town had no university—she’d have to move to the nearest city. Emily decided to postpone her studies for a year. She couldn’t abandon her parents in such difficult times and took a job at the local school instead.
Doctors had assured them her father might walk again with physiotherapy, massage, and medication. Her mother sold their cottage in the countryside to pay for the treatments, but no matter what they tried, he never rose from that chair.
“Enough,” he snapped one day. “Stop wasting money. It won’t help. I’m not getting up.”
His temper soured; he became irritable and suspicious, snapping at everything. Most of it fell on her poor mother. If he called, she had to drop everything and run—whether he wanted water, a question answered, or just idle chatter. Meanwhile, dinner burned on the stove.
“John, you could wheel yourself to the kitchen. Now the potatoes are ruined,” her mother scolded.
“My life’s ruined, and you’re crying over potatoes. Easy for you to say—you’ve got working legs. Is it so hard to fetch a glass of water?” he’d shout.
Sometimes, in his rages, he’d hurl cups or plates at her mother. Worse still, he began demanding whisky. Once drunk, he’d blame her for the accident, as if she’d been the one behind the wheel.
“Dad, don’t drink—it won’t help. Play chess, read a book,” Emily pleaded.
“What do you know? Trying to take my last bit of joy? Those books of yours are all lies. You read them. Real life’s not like that. I’m good for nothing now,” he’d mutter.
“Mum, don’t buy him any more,” Emily begged.
“If I don’t, he’ll scream the house down. It’s hard for him. What can we do?” her mother sighed.
“Hard? He won’t even try the exercises. The doctors said he could walk again. He just enjoys making us miserable,” Emily fumed.
She pitied him, but life was unbearable. One evening, exhausted after work—her throat sore, her body aching—she snapped when he called for her yet again.
“Enough! I’m tired—I can barely stand. You’ve got wheels—get to the kitchen yourself. You’re not the only one in this state. Hundreds of people manage—some even work or compete in the Paralympics. And you can’t wheel yourself for a drink? Do it yourself. I’ve got lessons to plan.” She stormed off.
She heard the whisper of his chair’s wheels, the clink of a glass on the kitchen table, the slow roll past her door—hesitating for a moment. She braced for him to burst in, screaming… but the wheels rolled on. After that, he became more self-reliant.
When the weather was mild, Emily left the balcony open. Her father would sit by the door—his version of “fresh air.” The narrow doorway and step barred him from going further. They couldn’t afford to widen it.
“Put me in a home,” he’d slur after drinking.
“Don’t say such things! You’re alive—that’s what matters. We’ll manage,” her mother soothed.
“You say that now. One day you’ll tire of emptying my bedpan. Pity will keep you here. What good’s a cripple to you? You’re still young…”
So life dragged on. The year slipped by, and autumn’s chill returned. One afternoon, rain poured as Emily left school. She huddled under the bus shelter’s glass roof, but the wind whipped droplets inside. Cars sped past, drenching waiting passengers with filthy spray. Emily shivered like a ruffled sparrow.
Then a lorry pulled up. A young man hopped out, holding his jacket over his head as he dashed to her.
“Hop in—I’ll take you home.”
Her feet soaked, her teeth chattering, she ducked under the jacket—its smell of petrol and oil oddly comforting. He helped her into the cab, dry and warm.
“Michael,” he introduced himself.
“Emily.”
“Emilia, then? Where to?”
She gave her address. Michael chatted about his life—how his single mum had raised him, how a neighbour took him on as a mechanic’s apprentice.
“After the army, I got my HGV licence. Pays well, plus there’s odd jobs—moving furniture, hauling goods. Need a lift? Just ring me.” Just like that, they were on first-name terms.
“You in school or working?” he asked.
“I teach at the primary.”
“Nice,” he nodded. “I’ll swing by the school, pick you up—let everyone see my rig. No one’s got wheels like this. Why’re you laughing?”
It was easy with him. Maybe she’d need his help someday. She gave him her number. That evening, he called, asking her to the cinema.
“Sorry, I can’t. My father’s in a wheelchair.”
“What if I pull up outside? Just to see you.”
“Why?”
“I like you. Simple as that.”
“What if you’re not my type? Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Why? Not handsome enough? Ashamed of a lorry driver?” he snapped.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—fine, I’ll come out.” She hung up.
The next day, a honk sent her to the window—his lorry idled below.
“Who’s that? A suitor?” her mother guessed.
“Just a friend. Can I pop out for a minute?”
“Go on, before he wakes the neighbourhood.”
Michael came nearly every day after that, sometimes collecting her from school. They’d sit in the cab, sipping tea or coffee from his thermos, eating sandwiches his mum had packed.
“He’s keen. A solid catch,” her mother remarked one evening as the lorry rumbled away.
“He’s not a ‘catch.’”
“Youth won’t last. Your friends are all marrying. What, you’ll wait till retirement? He wouldn’t keep coming for nothing.”
“Mum, I’ve got marking. Enough.” She fled to her room.
Michael had broached marriage more than once, but Emily stalled. Her heart didn’t race at the sight of him; his touch didn’t thrill her. Worse, he fixated on money.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got savings. We’ll do the wedding proper. Plenty of odd jobs in autumn—firewood deliveries, harvest hauls. You’ll not want for anything,” he’d say, pulling her close in the cramped cab. “I’ll trade up for a car by winter.”
No flowers (“waste of money”), no restaurants (“thermos does fine”). When his mother visited her sister, he’d bring Emily home. Their rare intimacy was methodical—uninspired. She invented excuses to avoid it.
She didn’t love him. But where else would she meet someone? School to home, home to school. At least he didn’t drink or smoke. Her mother nudged her—so she accepted, on condition they wait till summer.
Winter usually dragged, but spring came swiftly. After the May bank holiday, Michael insisted they register at the council offices. He’d handle everything; she just needed a dress.
One evening, rushing home with shopping, she bumped into a man in the dim hallway. Apologising, she moved past.
“Emily?!”
She turned, squinting.
“Paul. Don’t you recognise me?”
“Paul?! What are you—?” Her voice caught.
Could this be Paul, her childhood friend? The scrawny boy had become tall, broad-shouldered—handsome. His parents used to bring him to his gran’s every summer. They’d lived next door, and Emily spent hours there, devouring her granny’s potato fritters and courgette pancakes.
They’d sworn as children—always together, not just summers. When his parents took him back to London, they’d weep. Emily would count the days till Christmas, then till June.
As teens, the visits stopped—except once, for his gran’s birthday. Awkwardness replaced their ease.
***
“I’m on leave—Gran’s seventy-fifth. You’re lovely now,” Paul said, studying her.
“You’ve changed too. I didn’t recognise you.” She looked up, heart fluttering.
“Working or studying?”
“Teaching. Dad’s in a wheelchair since the accident—”
“Gran mentioned. No chance he’ll walk?”
“Doctor’s say he could. He won’t try. Drinks instead.” Her eyes dropped.
“Are you happy?”
“I’m getting married,” she blurted, flushing.
“Who”I’ve got to go, Mum’s waiting,” Emily said, hurrying up the stairs, feeling Paul’s gaze on her back like a touch she couldn’t shake, knowing in that moment that her wedding to Michael would never happen, because some promises—like the ones made in childhood summers—were meant to be kept.
