“Fine, forget I’m your mother if you marry her!” — yet he did things his way.
“Listen up, lads, I’m getting married!” announced Oliver, bursting into the office on Monday morning.
His colleagues near the water cooler nearly choked on their tea.
“You alright, mate? Did you hit your head?” was Daniel’s first reaction.
“Piss off, I’m serious. Found *the one*. None of this ‘let’s trial-run living together’ nonsense—straight to the real deal.”
“Wait… Last week you swore all women were the same and you were on a ‘dating detox’!” laughed Arthur.
“Still can’t believe it myself,” Oliver grinned. “But she’s different. Emily… You know the type—no cryptic texts or drama. Straightforward, no nonsense, genuine.”
“That exists?”
“Dead serious. Met in the comments under a post about films. Then DMs, then a pint at the pub. First thing she says? ‘Don’t bother with flowers, I sneeze at them.’ So I ask, ‘Chocolates?’ She goes, ‘These ones,’ and texts me links. Like a dream.”
The office erupted in laughter.
“Then cinema, then a walk, then… well. No mind games, no ‘figure out what I want.’ This morning, she hands me the bin bag and says, ‘Take this out.’ No sighing, no sulking. A bloody unicorn, she is.”
“Blimey, you’ve actually found the anti-your-mum!” Daniel ribbed.
“Shut it,” Oliver muttered—though he knew it was true.
His mother was… *complicated*. Fond of martyrdom, easily slighted, a master of guilt trips. His dad had bailed years ago, and Oliver had moved into a flat the second he could afford it, phone calls rationed to holidays.
Oddly, his exes had all echoed her. Until Emily, who might as well have been from another planet. So, naturally, he introduced her to Mum. Against better judgment.
Predictably, disaster.
Mum fussed over the tea tray, refusing help. Emily thanked her, sat down. Twenty minutes in: “No one ever lifts a finger in this house!” Emily just nodded—”Tell me about it, my office is all ‘chuck it on her desk’ while they sip lattes.”
Mum turned puce.
“She hates me,” Emily snorted as they left.
Cue the phone call. Mum, hysterical: “Rude! Heartless! Marry that girl, and you’re dead to me!”
“Righto, consider me an orphan,” Oliver said evenly, hanging up.
“Mum’s disowned me if I marry you,” he told Emily.
“Were you asking?”
“If you’ll have me—registry office tomorrow.”
“Deal. One condition.”
“Go on.”
“If your mum visits more than once a month, I’m moving in with mine. And trust me, she’ll bring her book club.”
“Fair,” Oliver surrendered. “Might skip inviting her to the wedding.”
“She’ll sulk.”
“Better after than during.”
Two months later, they married—just mates, Emily’s uni friends, zero fuss.
Oliver’s mum, true to form, boycotted it. Passive-aggressive texts for months.
But at the reception, Emily’s mate Lucy caught the bouquet—and wound up dating Arthur. Three months later, he strode into work:
“Lads, I’m getting hitched!”
Then Steve. Then Daniel. All suddenly found “no-nonsense” sweethearts. When the last bachelor fell, some random waitress caught the bouquet. The bride’s brother shrugged, walked over:
“Sorry, love, but tradition says I’ve got to propose now.”
She *said yes*.
Because happiness isn’t perfect scripts. It’s just not having your head messed with.
