No Wedding
Sophie graduated from teacher training college with honors, dreaming of going to university. But life had other plans. Her dad was in a bad car crash and spent ages in the hospital. When they finally let him go home, her mum took time off work to look after him while he adjusted to life in a wheelchair.
There wasn’t a uni in their town—she’d have had to move to the nearest city. Sophie decided to put it off for a year. She couldn’t leave her parents alone when they needed her most. So she started teaching at the local primary school.
The doctors said there was hope—if he kept up with physio, massages, and meds, he might walk again one day. Her mum sold their little holiday cottage to pay for private physios and whatever prescriptions he needed. But her dad never got out of that chair.
“Enough,” he said one day. “Stop wasting money. I’m not getting up. Never will.”
His temper got worse—he turned fussy, suspicious, always picking fights. Mostly with her mum, of course. If he called, she had to drop everything and run. Usually, it was just for a glass of water or to ask something pointless while dinner burnt on the stove.
“Chris, love, you could wheel yourself to the kitchen. Now the roast’s ruined,” her mum would sigh.
“My life’s ruined, and you’re crying over a roast? Easy for you to say—you’ve got working legs. Can’t you just bring me a drink?” he’d snap back.
Sometimes, in a rage, he’d hurl his glass or plate at her. More and more, he begged for whiskey. And once he’d had a few, he’d take it all out on her mum, like the crash was her fault.
“Dad, don’t drink—it won’t help. Why not read or play chess?” Sophie would plead.
“What do you know? Trying to take my last bit of joy? Books are all lies. Life’s not like that. I’m good for nothing now,” he’d grumble.
“Mum, stop buying him whiskey,” Sophie begged.
“If I don’t, he’ll scream the house down. He’s suffering. What else can I do?” her mum would whisper.
“He should be doing his exercises, not drinking. The doctors said he could walk again—he just won’t try. He likes making us run around after him,” Sophie fumed.
She felt sorry for him, sure—but it was exhausting. One evening, she came home from school shattered, her throat raw. All she wanted was to lie down. But her dad kept calling her. Finally, she snapped.
“Enough. I’m knackered. You’ve got wheels—get your own drink. You’re not the only one in a chair. People live like this, work, even compete in the Paralympics. And you can’t roll to the kitchen? Go on, do it yourself. I’ve got lessons to plan.” She stormed off.
She heard the squeak of his wheels, the clink of a glass in the kitchen, the slow roll past her door—pausing, just for a second. She braced for him to barge in screaming. But the wheels moved on. After that, he started doing more for himself.
On warm days, she’d leave the balcony door open. He’d sit there—”getting fresh air.” The door was too narrow for his chair, the step too high. They couldn’t afford to widen it.
“Put me in a care home,” he’d slur after a drink.
“Don’t be daft. You’re alive—that’s what matters. We’ll manage,” her mum would soothe.
“Say that now. Wait till you’re sick of cleaning up after me. Pity’s not love. Why stick with a cripple? You’re still young…”
And so it went. A year slipped by, then another rainy autumn. One day, Sophie left school just as the downpour started. She ducked under the bus shelter, but the wind blew the rain sideways. Cars sped through puddles, soaking everyone waiting. She stood there, shivering like a drenched sparrow.
Then a lorry pulled up. A guy jumped out, holding his jacket over his head, and dashed to her.
“Get in—I’ll drive you home.”
Sophie was frozen, her shoes soaked. She ducked under his jacket—smelling of petrol and engine oil—and let him help her into the cab. It was warm and dry.
“Mike,” he said.
“Sophie.”
“Sophia, then. Where to?”
She gave her address. The whole ride, he talked about why he drove trucks.
“Mum raised me alone. Had to step up. Neighbour got me a job at his garage. After the army, I got my licence. Pays well, plus there’s side jobs—deliveries, removals. So if you ever need help, call me.” Just like that, he was on first-name terms.
“You at uni or working?” he asked.
“I teach. Year four.”
“Nice,” he grinned. “I’ll pick you up from school—everyone’ll be jealous. What? This rig’s massive. No one’s got one like it.”
He was easy to be around. And if she ever needed help…? She gave him her number. That evening, he rang and asked her to the cinema.
“Sorry, can’t. Dad’s in a wheelchair.”
“What if I swing by yours?”
“Why?”
“Wanna see you. Like you,” he said bluntly.
“Maybe you’re not my type. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“What, ugly or something? Ashamed of a trucker?” he snapped.
“Sorry, didn’t mean it like that. Fine, I’ll come out.” She hung up.
The next day, a horn blared outside. She peered out—his lorry.
“Who’s that? A suitor?” her mum guessed.
“Just a mate. Be back in a tick.”
Mike came nearly every day after that. Sometimes he’d collect her from school. They’d sit in the cab, drinking tea or coffee from his thermos, eating sandwiches his mum had packed.
“Someone’s keen. Good catch,” her mum said once, watching the lorry pull away.
“He’s not a ‘catch.’”
“Youth doesn’t last. Your friends are marrying. You planning to stay single till retirement? He’s not just driving here for fun.”
“Mum, I’ve got marking.” Flustered, Sophie fled to her room.
Mike brought up marriage a few times, but she asked him to wait. Her heart didn’t race when she saw him. She hated how he always talked money.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got savings. We’ll do it proper. Autumn’s busy—log deliveries, harvest hauling. You won’t go hungry with me,” he’d say, squeezing her in the cramped cab. “Getting a proper car by winter.”
No flowers (“waste of cash”), no restaurants (“thermos tea’s better”). When his mum visited her sister, he’d take Sophie to his place. Sex was…functional. She made excuses to avoid it.
She knew she didn’t love him. But where would she meet anyone else? Mike was there, didn’t drink or smoke. Her mum nudged her. So she said yes—but made him wait till summer.
Winter usually dragged, but suddenly it was spring. After the May bank holiday, Mike insisted they register at the council office. He’d handle everything. She just needed a dress.
One day, hurrying home, she bumped into a man in the dim hallway. Apologising, she moved past.
“Sophie?!”
She turned, squinting.
“Paul. Don’t recognise me?”
“Paul?! What—how?” Her heart leapt.
Was this really Paul, her childhood friend? The scrawny kid was now tall, broad-shouldered, handsome. His parents used to bring him to his gran’s every summer. She lived right across the landing. Sophie would visit for her famous potato cakes.
They’d played by the river, picked strawberries. In year three, they’d promised to stay together always—not just summers. Goodbyes were tearful. One year, his parents stopped bringing him. Only once, for his gran’s seventy-fifth, did they all visit. Awkward teens then, they’d barely spoken.
Now here he was—grown, grinning.
“Came for Gran’s birthday. You look…wow.”
“You too.” Her cheeks burned. Her heart fluttered under his gaze.
“Working or studying?”
“Teaching. Dad’s in a chair since his crash…”
“Gran told me. No chance he’ll walk?”
“Could, but he won’t try. Drinks instead.” She looked down, fighting tears.
“And you? Happy?”
“Getting married,” she blurted, then flushed.
“Congrats. Who’s the guy?”
“Got to go—Mum’s waiting.” She raced upstairs, feeling his eyes on her backNow, as she held Paul’s hand at their own wedding six months later, watching her father take hesitant steps on his crutches toward them, she finally let herself believe in happy endings.
