Where Is the Love?
Emily was a bubbly, lively, and pretty young woman. Guys always buzzed around her, but she wasn’t in any rush—she was picky. The older she got, the higher her standards rose.
Her mother had raised her alone, and Emily knew all too well what it meant to count every penny. She didn’t have half the things her friends or classmates did. So, she decided early on—she’d only marry a man with money.
Then, one day, she met the man of her dreams—smart, handsome, successful, with a fat bank account, a flat in Kensington, and a sleek car. What more could a girl want? Prince Charming, basically. Of course, she fell head over heels. Emily was gorgeous, but she had nothing to offer except her looks. Still, youth and beauty had their own currency—she just didn’t realise it yet.
How could she *not* fall for him? He showered her with attention, indulged her every whim, and everyone around them seethed with envy.
Emily brought him home to meet her mum, certain she’d approve. What mum wouldn’t want the best for her daughter? And what could be better? She’d live like a queen. A catch like him? Pure fantasy. But when he left, her mum’s reaction wasn’t what she expected.
*”He’s a good match, sure. But what does he see in you? You’re young and pretty, but so are a thousand other girls. Why you? Oh, love… you’d have been better off with a simpler man. You’re from different worlds. Plus, he’s *much* older. He’s probably been married before, got kids somewhere—don’t roll your eyes! It *matters,* trust me. Mark my words, you won’t be happy with him.”*
*”We’ll see about that,”* Emily said proudly. *”He’s been divorced for ages. His son lives abroad.”*
*”You’ll have to bend over backwards to meet his expectations. Remember Cinderella? The prince fell for her at the ball when she was all dolled up. That’s a fairy tale—in real life, people notice where you come from. What will you even talk about? You’ll chat about cooking and cleaning, he’ll talk business and politics. Different worlds, different interests. And one day, he’ll choose someone from his own circle—not because he wants to, but because society will force him. He’ll start criticising you, resenting you. You’re too different.”* Her mum sighed. *”He’ll play with you, then toss you aside.”*
*”Didn’t expect this from you, Mum. I thought you’d be happy for me. But no—you’re never satisfied. What, should I never get married? Live in fear of being dumped?”*
*”I’m not against it, just—”* her mum began, but Emily cut her off.
*”If I marry some ordinary bloke like me, does that guarantee we won’t divorce? Don’t try to change my mind, Mum. I’ve decided. I’ll take whatever happiness I can get. At least I’ll know what it’s like not to worry about money.”*
*”Maybe you’re right,”* her mum relented. *”God grant that your happiness lasts.”*
It flattered Emily when women eyed James with envy, when he picked her up from work and her colleagues gawked. But he’d chosen *her.* That meant love, didn’t it? And love covered all inequalities, smoothed out every rough edge. What was it the Bible said about love?
James proposed beautifully—a diamond ring, not some tiny thing, but a whopping four-carat sparkler. Her head spun with love and happiness. No, their story would be different. She was sure of it.
Then came wedding dress shopping. She’d dreamed of this moment, browsing sites, imagining the perfect gown. But the prices made her stomach drop. They’d planned to visit a boutique in Mayfair that weekend, but last-minute, James got tied up with work. He handed her his card—*”Buy the most gorgeous dress. Don’t skimp.”*
She didn’t bring her mum. After a lifetime of pinching pennies, she’d only gasp at the price tags. And Emily didn’t have a close girlfriend to help. So she went alone.
Rows of ivory gowns stopped her in her tracks—like stepping into a fairy tale. Her future *was* a fairy tale. But one glance at the first price tag, and she nearly bolted. Three months’ salary for *one dress?* She felt like an imposter, like she didn’t belong in a place this posh.
She flinched when a saleswoman approached, offering help. The woman’s smile was polite but dripping with condescension. Humiliation burned Emily’s cheeks—this woman *knew* she didn’t belong. But she steadied herself, clumsily describing her dream dress. Like every girl, she’d sketched it in her mind since childhood.
The saleswoman brought out gowns so breathtaking Emily forgot to breathe. She refused to look at the tags. James had said not to worry. He’d *want* her to look perfect. But choosing was agony—each one more stunning than the last. She tried them on, lost in the fantasy. And suddenly, the staff weren’t smirking anymore. They treated her like royalty.
God, it felt *good* not to tally costs, to pick what she *loved.* If only James were here, sipping espresso like in the films, watching her twirl in masterpiece after masterpiece. He’d give a barely-there frown, and they’d scramble to find something *better.*
She chose the one that fit like it was made for her. To keep it from James (and her mum from fainting at the cost), she left it at the boutique until the wedding. It highlighted her natural beauty, her slim figure—perfection.
The wedding was straight out of a magazine. A posh countryside estate, fireworks, a live orchestra under the stars.
*”Bloody hell, you’ve landed on your feet,”* her envious colleagues cooed. *”A husband like that?”*
*”Like what? Handsome? Rich? He’s got *plenty* more going for him,”* Emily laughed. She was floating.
The first disappointment came almost immediately. Before, they went out constantly. Now? James barely left the house. Grumbling about work, video calls with investors—Emily wandered their massive flat, bored.
*”Dinner out tonight?”* she’d ask hopefully.
*”Too knackered. Your cooking’s brilliant—why waste money on restaurants?”* He’d barely glance up from his laptop.
She missed the effort—doing her hair, dressing up for him. Feeling *wanted.* Now? Home from work, apron on, straight to the stove.
When cooking got old, she ordered takeaway. James wolfed it down, none the wiser. If he suspected, he didn’t care—just thanked his doting wife.
He doted again when she got pregnant, even offered to hire help. Emily refused—she’d manage. She glowed, proudly cradling her bump. Wasn’t this the happiest time of a woman’s life?
The birth went smoothly. A healthy baby boy. Emily’s body softened, her focus now entirely on her son.
James wrinkled his nose coming home to her in a stretched-out dressing gown.
*”It’s easier for breastfeeding,”* she’d mumble.
His disapproving glances grew more frequent. He stayed late—meetings, work crises…
*”You’ve lost interest since the baby,”* she finally accused.
*”I *offered* to hire help,”* he muttered.
*”There’s someone else…”* The truth dawned, sharp and cold.
*”*You* said it, not me. But you’re not wrong. Yes, there’s another woman. Look at you—you’ve let yourself go. I give you enough to take care of yourself.”*
*”I thought the baby mattered more than my waistline! Breastfeeding means no diets. I barely have time to glance in a mirror!”*
It got worse. Resentment festered. James was rarely home; Emily spiralled with jealousy. One sleepless night, waiting for him, she decided to leave. In the morning, she packed a bag and called her mum.
*”Mum… can I stay with you?”*
*”Why? Renovations?”*
*”Something like that.”*
*”Course, love. Come over.”*
James came home to emptiness. He called—first pleading, then threatening.
*”Fine. The flat’s in my name. You’ll get nothing but child support.”* The line went dead.
Emily sobbed. Was *this* the marriage she’d dreamed of? Where had the love gone? Had it ever been real?
Her mum’s cramped flat was a far cry from Kensington.
*”Oh, love… I *told* you. But we’ll manage.”*
Then came the divorceYears later, as she watched her son laugh with Vanya—now a kind, devoted stepfather who adored them both—Emily finally understood that love had been there all along, quietly waiting for her to let it in.
