“Not the Son-in-Law I Had in Mind”
“Right then, Archie,” said Clive Edwards, setting a pen and a blank sheet of paper on the desk. “Write your resignation. Right here, right now.”
“Pardon?” The lad blinked. “Have I not been performing? I closed three deals just this month.”
“Couldve been thirty! Downsizing, restructuringcall it what you like. Youre not a fit for this company, end of.”
“Or is this about your daughter? About Emily? Ill keep seeing her regardless. Well marry, even if I end up sweeping streets for a living.”
“Over my dead body. Not. Happening. I wont have a skirt-chasing wastrel for a son-in-law! Plenty of decent blokes would jump at a girl like Emily. You? Keep a mile away!”
When Archie first joined the firm, romancing the bosss daughter hadnt crossed his mind. He didnt even know Emily then. Fresh out of uni with a first-class degree, hed planned to climb the property laddercharismatic, sharp, a natural at pitching lucrative deals. Clive himself had headhunted him after his internship. And now? Forced resignation. Charming.
The bit about Archie cycling through girls like socks? Fair point. He kept himself trim, dressed sharp, drove a BMWprime bachelor material. Marriage, though? Not on his radar. Live a little, build his career, *then* think about wives and prams. Lifes long; no rush.
His parents, mind, kept thrusting “nice girls from good families” at him. Nice families, perhaps, but the girls? Either their looks didnt match the pedigree, or their wit couldnt fill a teaspoon.
Take Angelica. Mum invited her over oncesome excuse about finishing a report together. Striking, sure. Legs like a supermodel; Archie nearly choked on his tea. Seizing the moment, Mum pounced:
“Angelicas new in accounting, but everyone adores her. And her cinnamon buns? Divine.”
“Ill bring some next time,” Angelica purred, batting her lashes. “Oh, and I *love* pickling beetroot.”
*Beetroot*. The word conjured visions of a cluttered kitchenjars of preserves, nappies on the line, a bubbling stew. Archie made his escape via a fictitious “urgent meeting.”
Thered been flings, of course. Gemma, the checkout girl at Tesco. Theyd met often enough to strike up a thing. One barbecue with mates later (hed invited her so he wouldnt be the odd one out), they kept seeing each other. Even took her mushroom foraging with colleagues. Clive approved:
“Solid girl. Looks at you like you hung the moon. Dont dallywomen like that dont grow on trees. Time to settle down.”
“Not planning to marry anyone,” Archie said, sealing his fate. “Were keeping it casual.”
“Casual wont cut it forever,” Clive muttered, turning a sausage on the grill.
Gemma eventually transferred stores, married some bloke with a trust fund. Archie? Unfazed. No promises broken.
Then came Emily. They met at a dog showboth obsessed with Dobermans, neither able to own one (Archie was never home; her dad was allergic). Hed no idea her dad was *Clive*.
Fate, though, had other plans. They grew close. Hed walk her homebut never to the door. Emily wasnt ready for parental scrutiny. Their goodbye spot? A bench in the park, just hidden enough for a sneaky kiss.
Until Clive, out for a stroll, stumbled upon them. “Roared” doesnt cover it.
“You know who this is?” he barked at Emily, jabbing a finger at Archie.
“My fiancé,” she said calmly. “Actually, Ive been meaning to introduce you”
“Weve met! Dyou know how many like you hes had? I could name a few!”
Peace talks failed. Archies appeals fell on deaf ears. Clive dragged Emily home like a toddler caught scribbling on walls.
Next day: resignation ultimatum. Archies protests”I love her!”bounced off Clive like peas off a tank.
Leaving, Archie fired a parting shot: “Well still see each other!”
“Dream on,” Clive scoffed, loosening his collar. “My daughter doesnt need a flake. And I dont need *you* as a son-in-law.”
“Frankly, Im not thrilled about you as a father-in-law either.”
Exit Archie. Clive wasnt bluffingEmily vanished. Spirited off to her uncles in Leeds, phone confiscated.
Till a forgotten mobile let her call Archie. Escape plan: during her supervised “walks,” hed whisk her away. First, a flatsomewhere Clive couldnt instantly storm. No church bells yet; hard to marry without brides parents. Emilys mum knew their hideout but stayed awayClives orders. He eventually found them but never visited. “No daughter, *certainly* no son-in-law,” hed grumbled.
Life rolled on. Thenbaby news. Joy all round (except, presumably, Clives). He *did* let his wife visitpracticalities and all.
Come the due date, out popped a boy: Oliver. Archie, clutching flowers outside the maternity ward, hadnt been this nervous since his driving test. Emilys mum wept quietly beside his own parents.
Just before Emily emerged, Clive materialised. Glared at Archie. “Champagne and fruit in the car. Suppose were celebrating?”
Emily appeared, spotted him, grinned. “Knew youd come.”
Clive shuffled. “Here for the grandson. Hand him overproper introductions needed.”
Cue laughter all round.
And thats how stubbornness, love, and a beetroot-free future won the day.
