**The First Pancake Always Flops**
Emily was a striking woman of twenty-seven, caught in the timeless refrain: *You always want the one you can’t have.* Men flocked to her, but most wanted everything at once—no patience for courtship, just a tumble between the sheets. Why wait? Life was short, opportunities fleeting.
Raised in a household of women—her grandmother and mother, proper, genteel—she’d been named after a great-great-aunt who’d studied at a prestigious finishing school in the days of grand estates and tea parties. Her grandfather had passed young; her parents divorced when she was twelve. Books were her escape, filled with chivalrous heroes who’d brave any storm for love, who whispered promises under moonlight. Emily longed for *that* kind of love—not the rushed, passionless encounters modern men offered.
Flowers, if they came at all, were a single rose on the first date, followed by impatient hands. No candlelit dinners, no stolen kisses by the Thames. Just efficiency.
She wasn’t built for that. When she fell, it was with butterflies and breathlessness—only to watch the object of her affection disappear into some other woman’s bed. *Sow your wild oats while you can,* they said. Meanwhile, her friends married, divorced, remarried, had children, and sighed over wine, asking when *she’d* settle down. But where was *her* Mr. Darcy? Maybe he didn’t exist.
Time ticked on. The single men dwindled; the divorced ones multiplied. So when James—charming, with a flat in Kensington and a decent car—showed interest, she leapt.
Months passed. No ring. Then—the revelation: he was married. Not maliciously, he swore. He’d just… *forgotten to mention it*. They were separated, of course. The divorce? *Any day now.*
Emily waited, foolishly hopeful. When it finally happened, James emerged penniless—he’d handed the flat and car to his ex to fast-track the divorce. “Did the decent thing,” he said. No savings. Just debt, child support, and a one-bedroom rental.
Her upbringing forbade abandoning him. *Stand by your man.* So she did, even as bills piled up, even when his late nights became suspicious. A baby came. The money vanished faster than he earned it.
“Ask your mum for rent,” he shrugged one morning.
Humiliated, she did. Her grandmother seethed: *Leave him.* But pride—or stubbornness—kept her silent.
Then, the final betrayal: he wasn’t working overtime. He was upstairs with the neighbor.
Emily left. Moved back home. Started tutoring—her English degree finally useful. Pride grew with each paycheck. Friends donated prams, baby clothes. Life stabilized.
James begged her return. “*I’ve changed.*” Empty words. She refused.
Years later, remarried to a man who adored her son, Emily finally breathed easy—until James slunk back, whining over alimony. “You’ve got a husband now—why should *I* pay?”
“The law disagrees,” she said coldly.
He retaliated—took a cash-in-hand job to slash payments. Still turned up in designer suits, guilt-tripping her about *his son*.
But Emily had moved on. Some first marriages, like first pancakes, just… flop.
And sometimes, the second one is perfect.
