The First Pancake Comes Out Lumpy
Marigold was a lovely twenty-seven-year-old woman. Her love life was like the old song: “You always want the one you can’t have, and the one who wants you—well, that’s just tragic.” Plenty of lads fancied her, but most were in a hurry—skip the small talk, straight to the action. Why waste time? Everyone’s in a rush these days. Opportunities slip away if you don’t seize them, and someone else will.
Marigold grew up in a household ruled by women—her gran and mum, both sharp, proper ladies. She was named after her great-great-grandmother, who’d been educated in a finishing school back in the day when tea was taken at four and gloves were mandatory.
Her grandad passed early, and her parents split when she was twelve. As a girl, she devoured romance novels—dashing heroes rescuing damsels from peril, stealing kisses under moonlight. Modern as she was, Marigold still dreamed of that kind of love, pure and selfless.
But modern blokes? Chivalry was dead. Most swapped roses for rushed gestures, skipped moonlit walks entirely, and leapt straight to the “closer relations” part. And why not? Plenty of girls liked it that way too—no time wasted on empty chatter.
Marigold wasn’t built for haste. She longed for butterflies, for heart-flutters, only to watch the objects of her affection trot off to bed with someone bolder. Men, she reasoned, wanted their fun before settling down—wife, kids, the works.
Her friends had married, divorced, remarried, spawned again, and now asked wearily when she’d find her prince. But where was he? Maybe he didn’t exist.
Time ticked on. The single lads dwindled; the divorced ones multiplied. Sick of waiting, Marigold flung herself at the next decent prospect—Oliver, with a flat and a car. What more could a girl want?
But Oliver never mentioned marriage. Turned out, he was already wed—not maliciously, just “forgot to bring it up.” He and his wife lived apart. He’d divorce soon, though. Definitely tomorrow.
Marigold, smitten, didn’t ask about kids. (There was one.) She waited patiently. When Oliver finally divorced, he’d handed his ex the car and flat—”did the decent thing,” he said. Now he was broke, saddled with mortgage debt and child support.
Not the dream, but Marigold wasn’t raised to abandon a man in need. Like a devoted Victorian heroine, she stuck by him. When Oliver proposed—deep in debt—they had a raucous wedding.
They rented a poky flat. Marigold pretended all was well. When doubts crept in, she ignored them—especially after getting pregnant. How would they manage?
Oliver took odd jobs, came home late, scowled at her in the mornings.
She got what she’d dreamed of—a love story. Just a rubbish one.
Her coat wouldn’t button over her bump. Winter loomed. The baby needed things. They needed food.
“Ask your mum,” Oliver said when the rent was due.
Mum and Gran scrounged cash. “Leave him,” Gran urged.
Marigold snapped at Oliver. He snapped back: “Get a side hustle.”
So she tutored kids in French—her one marketable skill, given schools taught it so badly. Soon, word spread. Now he was begging her for money.
Post-birth, she kept teaching, cuddling her son as if he’d fix everything. Friends donated prams, cots, clothes. One pal casually mentioned Oliver wasn’t working late—he was shagging the upstairs neighbour.
Marigold confronted him. He denied it, yelled about jealous liars.
“Jealous of what? Our glamorous debt-ridden life?”
Tears threatened. But tears solved nothing.
She gave him time to change. He didn’t.
“You’re unreliable and a cheat,” she said, then left with her son.
Mum and Gran rejoiced.
Life improved. She swore off men—who’d want a single mum?
Then Oliver’s mum descended: “A boy needs his father! Oliver’s changed!”
He arrived with roses, on his knees, sobbing. “My mistress dumped me,” Marigold said flatly. “No second chances.”
At work, she brushed off suitors—until one persisted. He adored her son. Gran prayed this one might stick.
Oliver stormed in, called her a hypocrite. “You left me for him!”
“You left us first,” she said.
His mum brought gifts, guilt-tripped: “He’ll resent you for taking his dad away!”
“I’m saving him from a deadbeat,” Marigold shot back.
Oliver visited sporadically, whinged about his life, then vanished.
Her new man proposed. No big wedding—her last one taught her enough.
Oliver called out of the blue: “Miss my son.” (Likely spying.) He noticed her ring.
“You remarried? What about me?”
“You had your chance.” “He’ll raise my kid?” “You didn’t want to.”
“Then waive child support!”
“Not a chance. Didn’t tell your new missus about us, eh?”
The payments soon shrank—Oliver’s “salary” mysteriously plummeted, though he dressed well.
Marigold, finally happy, watched him flail.
Some first marriages are like first pancakes—lumpy, doomed. But in the end, everyone lands where they belong.
