Unexpectedly Married
Margaret dashed through the shopping centre, arms laden with bags, weaving past people on the escalator. She fumed silently at her hapless boyfriend, John, who didn’t even own a car to fetch her and spare her the burden of carrying everything home. She had to order a taxi through an app, and of course, one arrived far too quickly, forcing her to scramble in heels across the sprawling mall to the car park.
Her irritation grew. Not only was she left to fend for herself, but the expensive leather shoes she’d splurged on had already rubbed her foot raw.
“Watch where you’re going!” snapped a woman on the escalator as Margaret’s bag clipped her head in the rush.
“Try looking ahead instead of daydreaming!” Margaret shot back without so much as a glance.
“Rude!” the woman spat, but Margaret couldn’t care less about her opinion.
She finally burst through the doors into the open air, only to check the assigned taxi number—too late. The driver had cancelled, and the fare had nearly doubled. Fuming, she cancelled the ride, shoved her phone into her pocket, and spotted an empty bench. Dropping her bags unceremoniously, she slumped down, peeling off the wretched shoe with a wince.
“God, the whole world’s against me today!” she muttered, shoving one of the bags aside. It toppled sadly, spilling its receipt onto the bench.
Leaning back, she closed her eyes. Lately, it seemed as though life delighted in thwarting her.
***
Margaret had always dreamed of more, never settling for less. The latest phone. The best salons for her nails and hair. The finest shoes. She applied the same standards to her suitors—yet somehow, she only ever attracted the “undesirables.” Too old, too dull, too poor, too lazy. She held out for years, but the perfect man never materialised.
“You’ll push it too far one day, and no one will want you,” her mother often warned. “A man’s worth lies in his actions, not his looks or wallet.”
“Am I supposed to admire his noble deeds in the dark?” Margaret would retort at twenty-five. “Kind gestures don’t pay the bills.”
Her mother had no answer. Margaret was sharp-tongued, always armed with a comeback, though she worked as nothing more than a restaurant manager. It had all started there three years prior, watching women draped in furs wined and dined by wealthy men. “Why not me?” she’d thought.
Yet life had other plans. The elite scarcely glanced her way—something about her screamed “provincial,” though she couldn’t say what. She dreamed of a man of status, power, fine suits, and foreign-built cars.
Time passed, men came and went, but the ideal never appeared. Eventually, she relented when John, a bank clerk four years her senior, began courting her. Modest but stable, with an ordinary face—brown hair, grey eyes, neither athletic nor flabby. His two-bedroom flat, mortgaged though it was, was spacious. No car, though. He insisted public transport sufficed in the city.
John was kind but persistent, showering her with flowers and dinners until, after three months and her mother’s coaxing, she gave in.
“He’s a good man—loves you, spoils you. What more do you want?” her mother pressed. “Better a bird in the hand than two in the bush.”
Grudgingly, Margaret agreed. And truthfully, life with John wasn’t terrible. He was attentive in his way—paying for her whims, whisking her abroad (though never five-star), cooking dinners, bringing coffee to bed, funding her shopping sprees. And he was determined to propose.
A year slipped by. Margaret grew accustomed, but never stopped dreaming—nor complaining to friends about John’s inadequacies. Yet… it would’ve been ungrateful to say she had it bad.
***
“Why is everyone against me?” she muttered, eyes closed.
“Not everyone,” a voice chimed in just above her.
She jolted upright, twisting to see Andrew behind her. Years ago, in college, he’d tried courting her—only to be publicly humiliated in front of her friends.
At first, she barely recognised him. Gone was the scrawny, pimpled student; in his place stood a handsome brunet with sharp stubble, broad shoulders, and a leather jacket.
“Goodness—Andrew?” she blinked. “You’ve… changed.”
“Time does that,” he chuckled. “You, though—same as ever. What’s wrong? You look dreadful.”
Awkwardly, she recounted her misfortunes (omitting John, of course).
“Let me drive you home,” he offered, nodding to a sleek black SUV nearby.
Margaret didn’t hesitate. Minutes later, he helped her in, stowing her bags with care. As they drove, conversation flowed.
“What’s your secret?” she purred.
“Luck and the right people,” he smirked. “Care to hear more over coffee?”
She did the maths. The shy boy was gone—this Andrew was confident, handsome, and clearly well-off.
An hour later, over lunch, he explained: dropping out, retraining in tech, rising through an AI startup. Now he owned his own firm. Margaret listened, starry-eyed.
“And you? Married yet?” he asked lightly.
She shook her head a little too quickly. Suddenly, dependable John seemed painfully dull.
Andrew spoke of projects, European holidays, luxury hobbies. She melted. This was the man she’d waited for.
After lunch, he paid, then stood. “Shame to end this so soon.”
“My day’s free,” she blurted.
He smiled. “Cinema, then?”
She’d have followed him anywhere.
They strolled long after the film, laughing, joking. Andrew hinted he’d been single for years. To John’s texts, she lied—visiting a friend.
When the evening chilled, Andrew suggested coffee in the car. She agreed. Inside, he pulled her close, kissed her—and she let things unfold.
“That was magical,” she sighed later, fixing her lipstick as the city lights blurred past. “When will I see you again?”
“I’ll… call you,” he said, scanning for a parking spot.
They kissed goodbye. Giddy, she floated home, head spinning with triumph and guilt.
The next day, she told John she was leaving. He barely flinched.
“If you’ve made up your mind, there’s nothing I can do, is there?”
“Nothing!” she snapped, packing. “You’re not what I want.”
He didn’t beg.
Back at her mother’s, triumphant, Margaret brimmed with plans. Her mother sighed—but arguing was pointless.
Days passed. A week. No call. She dialled Andrew herself. The line rang out.
“Odd,” she muttered, scouring social media. There he was—smiling beside a woman and two toddlers. Holidays, family dinners.
“But… he said he was single!”
She called again. This time, he answered.
“Margaret? Why are you calling?”
“You promised you’d ring!” she choked.
“Promised what? We had fun—that’s all.”
“I’ll tell your wife!”
“Go ahead. Where’s your proof?”
Slamming the phone down, she felt sick. Used. Returning to John was impossible—he’d never forgive this.
Collapsing onto her bed, she wept. Her dreams of luxury had delivered only a harsh, humiliating slap.
