David, are you serious? Again with those obnoxious roses? Emily twisted her lips as she stared at the bouquet. Ive told you a hundred times I like peonies. Peonies, you hear me? Do you even listen to me, or are you just hearing yourself?
David froze in the doorway, his cheeks flushing. In his eyes there was that guilty, bewildered lookready to do anything for her smile.
Sorry, love, Ill remember. Next time itll be peonies, I promise.
Emily tossed the flowers onto the table without even sniffing them. The roses were finelush, burgundy, speckled with droplets of waterbut they werent what shed asked for.
Mrs. Margaret remembered the first time her daughter brought David home. He was tall, broadshouldered, with an open face and calloused handsa civil engineer. David looked at Emily as if she were the greatest wonder in the world. Mr. Peter gave a approving nod behind his wifes back: A solid chap, seriousminded.
The first year and a half went smoothly. David drove Emily to the coast, gave her jewellery on birthdays and for no reason at all, and patiently listened to endless stories about friends and colleagues. But Mrs. Margaret began to notice something odd: Emily started talking about David in a dismissive tone, sometimes with barely concealed boredom, even contemptDavid brought a cake, can you believe it? Im on a diet. Hes calling again, clinging like a leech. She turned over his gifts as if they were a duty rather than gestures of affection.
In the second year, arguments startedthough it was really Emily who sparked them. She was desperately bored.
Do you even love me? Really? Do you? shed ask repeatedly, usually in the evenings. It doesnt feel right.
Emily, Ive been at work all day
Thats exactly the point! Youre somewhere all day and Im here alone! Have you got someone else?
David would apologise, explain, swear. Emily would sulk for a day or two, then forgive him graciously. Hed bring flowers, the book shed mentioned, theatre tickets. The peace would settleuntil the next tiff.
The triggers were limitless. He said the wrong thing. He looked the wrong way. He missed a like on a photo. He stayed late at the office. He replied too quickly to a messageapparently he was scrolling on his phone instead of working. He replied too slowlyapparently he was ignoring her.
Enough! Were done! became a refrain that echoed far too often.
Each time David was the first to beg forgiveness. Emily would pauseone day, three days, a weekbefore thawing again.
One afternoon Mrs. Margaret asked cautiously, Emily, do you really love him, or is it just convenient?
Emily scoffed, Mum, what a question! Of course I love him. Hes just sometimes a pest, thats all.
Five years passed in that strange dance of passion, scandal, breakup, and reconciliation. Davids hair was greying at the temples even though he hadnt yet turned thirty. Hed lost weight, smiled less, but he held on. Hold on to what? Mrs. Margaret guessed hope, perhaps the belief that things would eventually smooth out, become easier, calmer.
In the sixth year he proposed.
The ring was simplea thin gold band with a modest, clear diamond. David had booked a table at a decent restaurant in Chelsea, arranged for a small string quartet, even written a speech on a slip of paper that he later read aloud, blushing.
Emily said yes almost lazily, as if shed just been offered a biscuit with her tea. She slipped the ring on, posted a picture on social media, called her friends.
Mrs. Margaret hugged her future soninlaw tightly, motherly, David, Im delighted. Really, I am.
Mr. Peter shook his hand, Welcome to the family, officially.
Wedding preparations kicked off immediately. Emily took charge: a gown from Harrods, a photographer with celebrity portfolios, live orchids for the tables. David nodded at every request, signed off on every detail. He wanted the day to be perfect for his future wife.
A month before the date everything collapsed.
This is what? Emily jabbed at the printed menu. Rainbow? Seriously, you chose Rainbow?
Its a great spot, Em. We liked it when we tried it.
I said White Garden! With a terrace! With a river view! Not some greasy chophouse!
Theres no room on our date. Its already booked for another wedding.
So what? You shouldve sorted it! Offered more money! And you just just! Emily gasped. Thats it! The weddings off! Im fed up!
She threw the menu to the floor and stormed out. The usual script would have played out: David would apologise, she would soften after a few days. This time he didnt apologise; he seemed simply tired.
The next day David came for his things. Emily watched him pack his razor, charger, and hoodie.
Are you serious? she asked, still in disbelief. You just walk away? Leave me?
David zipped his jacket, looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Be happy, Em. Really.
And he left.
Emily waited a week, then two. Her phone stayed silentno messages, no calls, no surprise visits. She opened a chat a few times; the cursor blinked on an empty screen, but she never typed. Pride kept her from reaching out. He always returned first. He always did.
A month slipped by.
Maybe hes ill? Emily muttered while rummaging through her parents kitchen. Or on a business trip? Should I call him?
Mrs. Margaret, stirring a pot of stew, said quietly, Emily, you let him gohes gone.
I didnt let him go! I just
What?
Emily fell silent, lost for words.
Two months later, a colleague from accounts, Sarah, mentioned offhandedly at lunch, I saw your David yesterday. He was with a girl, pretty, blonde.
Emily dropped her fork. With who?
Dont know. She seemed new. They were laughing, holding hands it was sweet.
That evening Emily dug through Davids social media. His profile was publicshed long ago asked him to drop the privacy settings. No new photos, but a new friend appeared: Katherine Solovei. A tidy profile of landscapes and cats, the avatar a twentyfiveyearold woman with a soft smile.
Emily scrolled through Katherines page until three in the morning.
Mrs. Margaret watched her daughter change. The confidence faded, a cold sarcasm settled in Emilys eyes. She lost weightnot the healthy kind but a gaunt, unhealthy sort. Dark circles settled under her eyes, irritability teetered on hysteria.
Its all his fault! Emily erupted at her parents. Six years! Six years of my life, and he just throws it away for some insignificant mouse?
You walked away from him, Margaret whispered.
Its different!
How is it different?
Emily had no answer.
The year slipped by, painful and swift. Emily tracked Davids life from her phone: a barbecue with Katherine, a concert, a post captioned Moved in! showing a shared flat, a photo of a ring on a delicate finger with the caption I said yes! and three heart emojis.
Mrs. Margaret stumbled onto the post while scrolling. Katherine glowed in the picture, David beside her, his smile bright, his eyes alivejust as they had been before the joy was drained from him.
Good on you, David, Margaret thought. Finally.
Meanwhile Emily tried new relationships. Igor lasted four months before a birthdayparty argument sent him packing. Sergey stayed two before fleeing when Emily staged a scene in a restaurant full of his colleagues.
All men are the same! Emily shouted at another ex, perched at her parents kitchen table. Unreliable, selfish!
Mr. Peter chewed his meat quietly. Mrs. Margaret poured tea, pondering how oddly life works. Emily flicked through her phone, returning again and again to strangers happy snapshots.
Mrs. Margaret smiled. She was glad David had escaped Emilys grip. Yes, he was her soninlaw now, but she understood her daughters temperament.
At a family dinner Emily revived an old record.
David was at least patient. These men you cant say anything without them getting offended!
Maybe it isnt them? Peter suggested softly.
What do you mean, Dad?
He shrugged. Just saying, the third bloke this year has walked out. Strange coincidence.
Emily flared, So Im to blame, right?!
Her parents stayed silent. Sometimes silence says more than words.
Later, while washing dishes, Mrs. Margaret thought about how to explain the obvious to her daughter: love isnt a video game where you can keep hitting the save button and return to a convenient point. Patience isnt infinite. Manipulation corrodes trust slowly, like rust eating metal.
Emily blamed the world for its unfairness, waiting for a prince on a white horseone who would endure her whims forever.
Mrs. Margaret dried the last plate, put it away, and looked through the open doorway at Emily, still glued to her phone, scrolling through other peoples lives. She knew her daughter had seen pictures of David and Katherine, their happy faces, their loving glances. She, too, kept tabs on Davids life.
Thirty years ago, Margaret first cradled her tiny daughter and swore to shield her from any harm. Yet Emily had condemned herself to loneliness. To find happiness, she would have to change, or she would never learn what it truly means to be a wife and a mother.
And perhaps the greatest lesson is this: love cannot thrive on endless resets and excuses; it needs honesty, respect, and the willingness to let go when holding on only hurts both hearts.
