Dear Diary,
I never imagined that a simple comment could shatter an illusion. I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such want, the groom muttered before he even met my parents, and then he left five minutes later.
The next day, MotherLydia Johnsoncame bustling into the kitchen, brandnew tablecloth in hand. Emily, look at this beauty! she beamed, waving a gaudy printed cloth dotted with gigantic, neonbright poppies. Itll sit perfectly on our kitchen tablejust right for a celebration, not a banquet!
I, a twentysevenyearold nurse at the local childrens health centre, gave her a weary smile. Mum, its plastic and it screams. Can we get something plain, like linen? White or beige, perhaps.
Linen! she snapped, arms flailing. Did you see the price of that fine Irish linen? I got this at a market discountpractical, pretty, and cheap! A quick wipe and its spotless.
I tried to hide my irritation. Itsnothing special, Mum.
Oh, Emily, Lydia sighed, happiness isnt woven into tablecloths. She tucked the plastic cloth under the counter anyway. If only we were healthy and our home were peaceful. Anyway, my feet are hurting; lets get moving.
We ambled through the bustling stalls of Borough Market, and I watched Mothersmall, wiry, in a wellpressed but faded coatsweat under the weight of constant pennypinching. Shed taken on a night shift on top of her regular hours just to keep our cramped twobed flat on the outskirts of town afloat. She never complained; she simply dreamed. She dreamed of the day she could buy me not only expensive medicines but also a proper linen tableclothjust because she could, no occasion needed.
My prince, Arthur Whitfield, entered my life on a night after a grueling ward round when I ducked into a café for a coffee. He was seated at the next tabletall, welldressed, a confident smile, an expensive watch glinting on his wrist. He leaned over.
Miss, forgive my intrusion, but your eyes look so sad. May I offer you a pastry? A little sweetness might lift your spirits.
His charm was delicate, his compliments precise, never lecherous. He noted, Your hands are gentlea rarity these days. He worked for a large construction firm, held a respectable position, and whisked me around town in his polished foreign car to restaurants Id never seen. He presented me with bouquets that cost half my monthly salary, regaled me with tales of his travels, and spoke of future plans. I listened, breath held, feeling as if Id stepped into a storybook.
He confessed he was tired of predatory, ostentatious women chasing his wallet. In me, Emily Brown, he claimed to have found what hed long soughtpurity, sincerity, integrity.
Youre genuine, he murmured, kissing my hand. I thought such people no longer existed.
The only thing that unsettled me was that he never tried to visit my flat. We always met in the town centre, or he collected me from the bus stop a stones throw from home.
I dont want to impose, and its late enough to wake your mother, he would say.
I felt a sting of shame for our peelingpainted block, for the modestness of my home. I wanted him to see me as a princess, not a shabby girl.
Six months later he proposed. It felt like a dream: an evening at an upscale restaurant, candles flickering, him down on one knee, offering a velvet box set with a sparkling stone.
Emily, I want you to be my wife. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want you to run my home.
I said yes, tears of joy spilling as I clutched the box to my chest. Our fairy tale continued.
We decided he would meet Mother first, then wed all visit his parents. The meeting was set for Saturday, and we prepared as if it were the most important day of our lives. For three days we scrubbed our tiny flat. Mother dusted off an heirloom china set shed kept for a special occasion. I spent my last pennies on that very linen clothstark white, freshly starched.
Mother, look how lovely it is! I exclaimed, laying it out. Just like a restaurant!
May your fiancé appreciate it, Lydia sighed, sliding an apple crumble into the oven. Im nervous, dear. Hes such a solid man, and were justordinary folk.
Mum, he loves me, not our flat! He loves me for who I am!
Arthur was due at five. By quartertofive I was at the window, scanning the street for his car. Dressed in my best dress, I kept fixing my hair, heart thudding.
There he is! I shouted, spotting his familiar silver sedan easing into our lane.
I bolted down the landing to greet him. My pulse felt like it might burst from my chest. He stepped out, immaculate in a tailored suit, clutching a massive bouquet of roses, looking like a film star.
He smiled, his grin bright, and headed toward the stairwell. Then I saw his expression shifthis smile faltered, replaced by a scowl. He entered our dim, damp hallway, eyes lingering on the cracked plaster, the flickering bulb, the scuffed lift doors. With each step up the stairs his face grew darker. At my thirdfloor doorway, my excitement turned to icy dread. He stared not at me, not at my dress, but at the modest entryway: the old coat rack, the worn mat, the cracked wall.
He stopped a metre away, his gaze cold as ice, scanning our humble hallway.
Emily, welcome, he muttered, his tone flat, as if reading a script.
He asked, Is this really where you live? his voice dripping with contempt.
Yeshere.
He chuckled bitterly, glancing at his expensive suit, then back at the shabby corridor.
Its clear.
He handed me the bouquet, the gesture mechanical.
I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such poverty, he said, his voice calm, as if stating a fact. He turned and walked back down the stairs without a glance.
I stood, clutching the lavish roses, frozen. I heard his footsteps recede, the door thud, the engine start, and then a heavy silence.
From the kitchen, Mother emerged, wiping her hands on her apron.
So, Emily? Wheres the groom? The crumbles ready She looked at my ashen face, the roses in my hands, and understood. She slipped the flowers from my grip, took my trembling hand, and led me inside.
Sit down, love.
I sank onto the sofa, tears not yet flowing, an empty void yawning inside.
He he left, Mum.
I see, Lydia whispered, sitting beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He said werepoor.
She held me tighter.
Youre a fool, my dear. What a blessing this ishe left now, not in ten years. Its a mercy that God spared you from such a hollow man. He was a shell in a fancy coat. He never loved you; he only knew how to consume. He didnt see you, just the ideal of a pure, needy girl he could rescue. When he saw real povertypeeling paint, a scuffed mathe ran. Thank God, the rubbish took him out.
She stroked my hair, uttering simple, wise words about wealth not being measured in pounds, about integrity not priced by a suit, about love that isnt frightened by lack or cracked walls.
Cry, my child. Let the tears wash away the grief. Then rise, wash your face, and keep living. Youll meet a true man one day, someone who loves your soul, not your tableclothwhether linen or plastic. All that matters is youre there.
I weptlong, bitter tears, pressed against Mothers shoulder. I mourned not just the man, but the broken fairy tale, the naïve belief in magic.
When the sobbing stopped, I rose, approached the table set for a celebration that never happened, ran my fingers over the white linen.
The crumble must be cold by now, I remarked.
Nothing, Mother replied, smiling. Well put the kettle on and have tea together. Just the two of us. Today is a celebrationour own little liberation.
We sat, sipping tea and sharing the apple crumble, the white linen spread beneath us. It was the most comforting cake and the most heartfelt evening Id ever known.
