Emily met Oliver when she was twenty-eight. She had everything going for her—a slim figure, a pretty face—but despite no shortage of suitors, serious relationships never lasted. At university, she hadn’t rushed into marriage like her peers, thinking she had time. But once she started her career, the men around her were either married or taken. All that remained was to focus on work.
“Life’s slipping by, love. Career’s important, but don’t forget about your personal life,” her mother would say.
“Mum, what, should I marry the first bloke I see just to pop out a baby and divorce? Then no one would ask when I’m getting married, right?” Emily retorted.
“You’re practically living at the office. Look around—there must be someone!”
“Enough, or I *will* marry the first man I see,” she huffed.
Her mother pursed her lips but secretly asked friends and coworkers if they knew any decent, single men.
One morning, the bus was packed as usual. A stranger offered Emily his seat. She smiled gratefully. Two days later, they crossed paths again, exchanging smiles like old acquaintances. But they didn’t speak—he exited two stops early.
After work, as she gazed absently out the window, she spotted him at a bus stop, scanning the crowd. Somehow, she knew he was looking for *her*. She got off.
That’s how they met. Oliver was easygoing, but if asked if she loved him, Emily wouldn’t have said yes. She started dating him to silence her mother’s nagging. Yet, gradually, she grew fond of him. If days passed without him, she’d fidget restlessly.
He’d arrive with wildflowers, never roses. It was endearing. Two months in, he proposed.
Emily hesitated. Too fast—she barely knew him. But saying no meant staying alone. And she *had* to marry eventually. Why not Oliver?
She brought him home, but her mother wasn’t impressed.
“What’s wrong *now*?” Emily snapped after he left.
“He lives with his mum! No flat, no car. Where will you live?”
“We’ll rent. You wanted me married, now you’re picky! Men with flats and cars are either taken or divorced. We’ll get everything—flat, car, kids. Sorry he’s not your imaginary Prince Charming!”
Her mother sighed. “Fair enough.”
They booked a registry office and planned a small wedding. Dress shopping was exhausting until Emily found *the one*—fitted perfectly, expensive, but she bought it without hesitation.
Oliver flat-hunted and showed her two dingy, cheap options. “These are shoe boxes! And commuting’s a nightmare.”
“Choose yourself, then,” he sulked.
She did—central, walkable, freshly renovated.
“Taking it?” the landlady asked.
“No, too pricey,” Oliver said.
Emily argued outside. He saw only the cost; she saw their time, comfort. Their first real fight ended frostily, Emily refusing his escort home.
She cried that night. “Wedding stress,” her mother soothed. “Maybe he’s frugal from growing up tight.”
“His mum owns a mink coat! He’s just cheap with *me*.” She glared at her ring. “It’s tiny.”
“You liked it before!”
“Now I don’t.”
Next day, Oliver arrived with flowers, apologized, and rented *her* chosen flat. Overjoyed, she forgave him.
The wedding was lovely. Guests gifted cash—”For your future home.”
The morning after, their honeymoon barely over, Oliver’s mum visited, gushing about their “bargain” flat. Emily shot him a look. He shook his head subtly: *Don’t ask.*
“Why lie?” she demanded later.
“No need to worry her,” he shrugged.
A year later, Emily was pregnant. Oliver’s reaction? “I planned to buy a car first…”
“You’d rather I abort so you can drive?”
He backtracked, but the damage was done.
They browsed prams and names. One day, Emily splurged on a tiny lace-trimmed outfit.
“Superstitious, much?” Oliver eyed the price tag.
“For *our* baby!”
At the ultrasound, he dismissed the grainy image. “Looks like static.”
Later, when contractions hit, Oliver called an ambulance. “Get the blue outfit we saw!” she insisted.
Hours later: “Congrats, Dad! He’s perfect!”
Post-birth, Oliver handed her a second-hand pram, a battered crib, and musty hand-me-downs.
“Colleague’s cast-offs,” he muttered.
Emily exploded. “You bought a used car instead!”
They fought bitterly. Her mother urged patience. “It’s trivial!”
“Then it’ll be toys, school, *everything*.”
She stayed—until Oliver refused a post-baby work dress. “Lose weight. No need to waste money.”
She left.
A year later, she met James—roses, gifts, kindness. “You’ll spoil him,” she said, unused to generosity.
“Can’t spoil with love,” he replied.
One day, they spotted Oliver with a new girlfriend clutching wilting daisies—just like he’d once given Emily. She smiled, pitying her replacement.
A miser stays miserly, even in love.
