She Cheated on Her Fiancé Once Before the Wedding: He Called Her Fat and Said She Wouldn’t Fit Into Her Bridal Gown.

Author Cyrus HargraveReading 6 minViews 6

Emma betrayed her husband just once, before the wedding. He called her fat and said she wouldnt fit into the bridal gown.
Even before marrying, Emma cheated on her fiancé only that one time. Stung by his cruel words, she went out with friends to a nightclub in London, drank too much, and woke in a strange flat beside a handsome blue-eyed man. The shame was unbearable! She never told Daniel, forgave his insults, and even started a diet. She quit drinkingeasy enough once she discovered she was pregnant.

Their daughter arrived right on time, a beautiful girl with blue eyes, and Daniel adored her. For five years, Emma told herself it was finethe girl had blue eyes because her grandfather did. And if her hair was curly, so what? Emma tried desperately to forget the man with tousled hair whose name shed erased. Yet in her mothers heart, she knewthis wasnt Daniels child. Maybe thats why she tolerated his late nights, his work trips, his endless nitpicking about her cooking and looks. For the girls sake, she endured. Where else would you go? her mother sighed. Your brothers moved his fiancée in, Grans bedriddentheres no room. I warned you not to put the house in your mother-in-laws name!

Emma held on. But it didnt matter. One day, Daniel left. Hed met someone else, he sobbed, promising hed always be Lilys fatherbut his heart had moved on. His mother, whod doted on the girl, hissed after the divorce: Get a paternity test. Why pay child support for nothing?

Emma froze. Shed thought she was alone in her doubts. Turns out, she wasnt.

Are you mad? Daniel snapped. Anyone can see Lilys mine!

Maybe his mother was right. A year later, appendicitis landed Emma in hospitalwhere she saw familiar blue eyes above a surgical mask.

Have we met? the doctor asked.

Emma shook her head violently, praying he wouldnt remember.

But he did. Next day, visiting, he teased: Hope you wont run off as fast as last time.

Emma flushed tomato-red. She planned to fleeyet by discharge, Thomas had her wanting to stay. She didnt mention Lily. Only that she had a daughter.

Thomas understood the moment he saw the girl. Nervous, he bought a doll, grilled Emma on how to act.

Listen, he said, my mum left my dad when I was small. My sister never accepted her new bloke, drove him off. I wont let that happen. Ill be Lilys second dad.

Emmas heart cracked. When he froze, staring at the girlthen at hershe knew: hed realised.

Whats the difference? she thought. Hed find out someday.

Bracing for shouts, she got a tearful hug instead: What a bloody miracle.

At first, Lily seemed fine with Thomas. But when Emma gently asked if he could move in, the girl wailed: I thought Dad was coming back! Let Thomas live elsewhere!

Emma soothed herbut Thomas was gutted.

Shes mine! They deserve the truth!

Daniel couldnt take it. Nor could Lily. To her, hes Dad. To him, shes his only childhis new wife cant have babies.

Thomas seethed. Lily threw tantrums. Emma juggled their fragile peace with rules: Daniel got visits (no meetups), Thomas was never left alone with Lily (theyd row), even Mothers Day cards were vetted to stop accidental truths.

Then Emma got pregnant againand panicked. What if this baby looked like Lily? What if Daniel guessed? What if Thomas spilled everything while she was in labour?

They planned for her mum to mind Lily. But Gallstones hospitalised Gran last-minute, her stepdad refused another kid, and her brother was working. Emma tried Danielaway on business. Leaving Lily with his mum? No chance.

Cant I look after my own daughter? Thomas fumed.

The birth was roughC-section, jaundice, extra hospital days. At home, tension hummed. Thomas claimed all was fine, but Lily clammed up. He told her, Emma feared.

Neighbours urged honesty: The truth always outs. Pay your dues. So she called Daniel:

I need to confess.

Confess what?

Long silence.

About Lily

What about her?

Emmas planned speech evaporated.

Shes your mates kid. Ive known forever.

He told you?

Figured it out ages back. Did my National Service medicalwas told Id never have kids. Kept quiet, hoped for a miracle. Then doubts. Mums too. Got it confirmed.

But why?

Emma reeled.

What could I do? he said. Not the kids fault! Dont tell her! I played dad to keep her.

Discharge day felt surreal. Lily and Thomas acted oddexchanging glances, unusually quiet.

Howd you two manage? Emma asked once the baby slept and Lily sketched.

Brilliant! You always interfered. We sorted ourselves.

Did you tell her?

Course not! You forbade it.

Then whys she so off?

Thomas smirked. Ask her.

Emma peeked into Lilys room. Tongue poking out, the girl coloured fiercely. The drawing: three adults, two kids.

Whos this? Emma asked.

Cant you tell? You, Dad, Thomas, me, and baby Oliver.

Lovely.

Mum can someone have two dads?

Emmas throat tightened.

Sometimes, yes, she said carefully.

So can I call Thomas Dad too? Hes nice. We built a LEGO castle, saw fish. A funny grandad at the shop asked what my dad does. Wasnt sure if he meant Thomas, so I said doctor. Cool having a doctor dad. I asked Thomas, but wanted to check with you.

Emma hugged her, realising the trap shed built. Daniel had forgiven. Thomas would too. But if Lily ever learned the truth Time to choose: live in fear, or set them free?

Of course you can, Emma whispered. Hed love that. But dont tell Dad.

Another Woman’s Son — Your husband is the father of my child. With these startling words, a stranger approached Christine as she quietly enjoyed her lunch. Making herself comfortable across from her, the woman seemed to wait for any kind of reaction to her bold claim. “And how old is your little one?” Christine replied, completely unphased, as though such announcements were an everyday occurrence. “Eight,” Marina answered, pursing her lips in frustration. This was not the shock or outrage she had been expecting! No denial, no accusations, not even a hint of disdain? “Wonderful,” Christine smiled slightly and returned to her delicious cherry pie — served only at this particular café. “We’ve only been married for three years, so anything that happened before me isn’t relevant. Just one question — does Arthur know?” “No,” the woman retorted, leaning back in her chair. “But it doesn’t matter! I’m demanding child maintenance! He will pay, do you understand?” “He will, of course,” Christine agreed. “My husband adores children, and if he’d known sooner, he certainly would have wanted to be part of your son’s life. What’s his name, by the way?” “Ethan,” Marina replied automatically, then frowned. “Don’t you care that your darling husband has a child with another woman?” “As I said, anything before our marriage doesn’t concern me,” Christine’s soft smile didn’t leave her lips. “I knew perfectly well I was marrying a grown man, not some innocent lad. Naturally, he had a past, and that doesn’t bother me. What matters is that I’m the only one now.” “Fine. See you in court. You’d better get ready to fork out, because I’ll be demanding everything my son is legally entitled to.” With that, Marina left, leaving behind an overpowering scent of perfume. Christine struggled not to grimace — it was as if the woman had doused herself in half a bottle. “Go ahead, try your luck,” Christine mused philosophically, finishing the last bite of her pie. “I wonder how you’ll react when you find out Arthur’s official salary is only thirty thousand? The business is in his father’s name… Plus, he’s caring for his elderly, ill mum at the moment. You’ll barely see a penny.” Christine even felt a little sorry for the innocent boy. Maybe she should pay them a visit, see how they lived, and perhaps arrange a decent monthly sum for the child — provided Ethan really was Arthur’s son. She’d met women like this before… ********************* The DNA test was done quickly — when you have money, many things are resolved with the snap of a finger. The result was clear: Ethan was indeed Arthur’s son. In fact, Christine found the boy unnervingly quiet and withdrawn. What eight-year-old sits motionless and silent for ninety minutes while paperwork is filled out? He didn’t ask for cartoons, didn’t run about, didn’t make a sound… Nothing like other kids his age forced to wait around. It was odd. Christine was now even more certain she should visit this new “relative.” The flat was in a posh part of town, with a concierge at the entrance, two bedrooms, modern decor, everything top-notch. Christine made note of these things, unable to fathom why a woman living in such comfort could complain of being hard up. “Court’s in a week,” Marina grumbled, letting her in. “You could have waited to talk there.” “I wanted to get to know Ethan a bit better. Arthur is keen to be involved in his life — maybe take him on weekends, once he’s settled.” “As if I’d let him!” Marina bristled. “The court will decide,” Christine replied coolly. “He’s the boy’s father — it’s his right. But… I don’t see a single toy around here?” “I don’t have spare money for that nonsense,” Marina said dismissively. “Can barely afford him clothes, never mind toys.” “Seriously?” Christine glanced pointedly at Marina’s designer handbag, the expensive clothes strewn over the sofa, the premium cosmetics beside the mirror. “You’re short of cash?” “I’m still young. I want a family — that’s not your business,” Marina snapped, bristling at Christine’s tone. “And who looks after your son while you’re out at all hours?” Christine pressed, beginning to understand why Ethan seemed so quiet and detached. “He’s not a baby. Can stay by himself,” Marina muttered. “Is that all? See you in court!” “I’ll insist you’re accountable for every penny given for Ethan’s upkeep,” said Christine, fighting the urge to stay any longer. She was horrified by the woman’s attitude towards her own child. “I doubt you’ll be pleased with what the judge decides…” ********************** “…the court has ruled: Marina Lipova’s claim is granted in part. Arthur Malin is recognised as the father of Ethan Lipov. The register office is to amend the birth certificate accordingly. The claim for maintenance is denied. Arthur Malin’s counterclaim for residence is granted…” Christine smiled contentedly — she had achieved her goal. Ethan would live with them. Some might judge her for “taking a child away from his mother,” but it was the right thing to do. All of Marina’s neighbours agreed the boy was unwanted — she’d scream at him for no reason, hit him openly, heedless of witnesses. The child psychologist insisted Ethan needed to be removed for his own welfare. His teachers and former childminders said the same. Now Ethan would have his own spacious room, stacks of toys, a computer… And, most importantly, the love of parents he’d never felt before, as both Arthur and Christine were now utterly smitten with this wonderful little boy.

Towards a New Chapter: “Mum, how much longer must we stay in this backwater? We’re not just in the sticks—we’re in the sticks of the sticks,” sang my daughter Masha as she returned from a coffee shop. “I’ve told you a hundred times—this is our home, our roots. I’m not going anywhere,” I replied from my place on the sofa, legs propped up like what I call the ‘Queen’s gymnast pose.’ “Roots, roots… Give it ten more years and you’ll wilt, and then another ‘beetle’ will show up for you to introduce as my new dad.” After those painful words, I stared at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. “My roots are just fine, don’t exaggerate…” “That’s what I’m saying—right now they’re normal, but soon enough you’ll have to decide if you’re a turnip, pumpkin, or sweet potato—whatever takes your chef’s fancy.” “If you want to move, go yourself, darling. You’re legally an adult. Why do you need me?” “For peace of mind, Mum. If I leave for a better life, who’ll look after you?” “My insurance, my salary, the internet—there’ll be another beetle, like you said. It’s easy for you, being young and savvy. I’m already halfway to Valhalla.” “But you joke like my friends and you’re barely forty…” “Why say that out loud? Just to ruin my day?” “In cat years, that’s only five,” she quipped. “You’re forgiven.” “Mum, while there’s still time, let’s hop on a train and go. There’s nothing here for us.” “I only just got them to spell our name right on the gas bill and we’re registered at the clinic here,” I protested with my last arguments. “They’ll take us anywhere with our NHS numbers. We don’t have to sell—if it doesn’t work out, we’ve somewhere to come back to. I’ll show you how to REALLY live, Mum.” “My sonographer said you’d never let me rest. Thought it was a joke—until he won bronze on ‘Britain’s Got Psychics’. Alright, we’ll go, but if it all goes wrong, promise you’ll let me come back in peace.” “Pinky swear!” “Your co-creator made that same promise at the registry office, and look how that turned out.” *** Masha and her mum skipped the county town and headed straight for London. After emptying three years’ savings, they splurged on a studio flat out in Zone 6, squeezed between a market and the bus station, and paid four months’ rent up front. The money ran low before they’d even started spending. Masha was calm and full of energy. She skipped the tedious unpacking and dove straight into the city’s creative, social, and nightlife scene. She blended in fast, mastering local slang and style as if she’d lived here forever, not just beamed in from some parallel suburb of the universe. Meanwhile, Mum lived between morning cups of herbal tea and evening chamomile. She ignored Masha’s pleas to go exploring and instead scoured job sites, only to find salaries and vacancies that made no sense together and felt like a trap. Her prediction: they’d last six months, tops, before heading home. She brushed off her daughter’s ‘modern’ criticism and landed a job as a cook at a private school, plus evenings washing dishes at a café. “Mum, you’re back at the stove round the clock! Might as well never have left. Why not retrain—become a graphic designer, a sommelier, or even a brow stylist? Ride the Tube, drink overpriced coffee, adapt!” “I’m not ready. But don’t worry about me, love—I’ll manage. Just get yourself sorted.” Masha set about fitting in: holing up in cafés on the tabs of other regional migrants, building mental and mystical ties with the city as decreed by a rune-reading blogger, and hanging out in groups where only money and ‘success’ were discussed. She wasn’t rushing into work or relationships; she and the city needed to grow into each other first. Four months in, Mum paid the rent from her own earnings, quit dishwashing and started cooking for an extra school. Masha meanwhile dropped several courses, auditioned at a local radio station, appeared as an extra in a student film where they paid her in pasta, and briefly dated two aspiring musicians—one a complete donkey, the other a family man (and a real ‘tomcat’ in every sense) who wasn’t looking to settle. *** “Mum, fancy going out tonight? Or shall we get pizza and watch a film? I’m too knackered to move,” yawned Masha, sprawled on the sofa in the ‘Queen’s gymnast pose’ as Mum did her makeup. “You order, I’ll transfer you some money—don’t worry about me, I’m not likely to be hungry when I get back.” “Back from where?” Masha sat up straight, frowning. “I’ve been invited out to dinner,” Mum replied with a shy giggle. “By who?” Masha couldn’t muster any excitement. “We had an inspection at school. I served the head of the commission your childhood-favourite meatballs. He joked about meeting the chef, and one thing led to another—we grabbed a coffee, like you always say to. Tonight I’m cooking dinner at his.” “Are you mad? Going to a stranger’s house? For dinner!” “So what?” “You know he’s not just after your lasagne, right?” “Darling. I’m forty, single, he’s forty-five, clever and not married. Honestly, I’ll be happy with whatever he expects.” “You sound like a desperate villager with no options.” “You don’t sound like my daughter. You dragged me here to LIVE, not just exist.” Masha realises they’ve swapped roles—and promptly self-medicates with an XXL pizza. Mum comes home after midnight, lit up by happiness, and sidesteps Masha’s questions. “A thoroughly British beetle—definitely not a foreign invader,” she jokes, and heads for the shower. Dates, theatres, stand-up shows, jazz concerts, book clubs, and tea clubs follow. In six months, she signs up for cooking courses, earns certificates, and learns to make complex dishes. Masha tries not to freeload and applies to posh firms. No luck—big roles keep eluding her, friends only paid for her out of novelty, so she lands a job as a barista, then later, a night bartender. The city’s grind sets in, painting insomnia circles under her eyes. No love story emerges; drunken bar guests offer blurred romance, but nothing worthy of a fairy tale. Eventually, it’s all too much. “You were right, Mum—this was a mistake. I’m sorry I dragged you here. We need to go home,” declares Masha after a rough shift, stuffing her suitcase. “Going home? Why?” Mum asks, in the middle of packing. “Back where they spell our surname right, where we belong, where we’re registered at the proper clinic. You were always right.” “I’m settled here now and don’t want to leave,” Mum says, studying her daughter’s red eyes. “I don’t care—I want out. I hate this place: the Tube, the overpriced coffee, everyone in the bar is so pretentious. Let’s just go home. You’ve packed too, haven’t you?” “I’m moving in with Jeff,” Mum suddenly reveals. “You mean, MOVING IN with him?” “I reckon you’re set now—grown up, gorgeous, working, and living in London! Opportunity here flows faster than the Thames. Thank you for bringing me. If not for you, I’d still be pining in our backwater. Here, life truly sparkles! Thank you!” Tears fall, but Masha isn’t reassured. “Mum, how will I cope? Who’s going to look after me?” “Health insurance, a steady wage, the internet—plus, you’ll find your own beetle,” Mum quips back, echoing Masha’s words. “So you’re just abandoning me?” “I’m not. You promised—no tantrums.” “Yeah, yeah… Hand me the house keys.” “They’re in my bag. But just one thing—can you help Grandma? She’s moving down too. I’ve sorted it all with her. She’s landed a job at the local post office—after forty years, she could send a letter to the North Pole and it’d get there! Time she takes a chance before her ‘roots’ dry out.”