Alina, don’t rush into marriage. Happiness won’t run away—her grandmother’s voice echoed softly in her heart.
Alina woke at dawn, not just to get ready for work but to make Ewan’s favourite pancakes. She glanced at her sleeping fiancé, yawned, and hurried to the kitchen. As the first batch sizzled, Ewan shuffled in, rubbing his eyes. She set a plate before him—golden pancakes, a dollop of cream, and a sugar bowl—before turning back to the stove.
After a few bites, Ewan spoke. “Listen, Alina, we’ve got holiday savings. But maybe we should be smart with it. Fancy getting a car instead? We’d need a loan, but it’s practical. The seaside can wait.”
The money was hers alone—scrimped and saved. Ewan squirrelled away for a new-build flat, refusing to live in her nan’s cosy London flat, though Alina adored it. She’d already packed for their getaway, but his logic seemed sound. With a sigh, she nodded.
Before she could speak, the doorbell rang. Asking Ewan to watch the pan, she answered. There stood his mother, Margaret, trailed by his younger brother, Jack, dragging a massive suitcase.
“Spoke to Ewan last night,” Margaret announced, toeing off her shoes. “Jack’s staying with you. His uni’s a ten-minute walk from here—forty from ours. No kids yet, and let’s keep it that way for now.”
“Mum, it’s too early,” Ewan grumbled, helping Jack haul the bags inside.
Alina froze. The smell of burning snapped her back—Ewan had let the pancakes char. She lunged for the stove as Margaret and the boys crowded in.
“Bloody hell, Alina! Trying to burn the place down?” Margaret scooped blackened pancakes onto her plate.
“I was answering the door,” Alina murmured.
“About the car—Ewan’s right. Holiday at our cottage instead. Sarah’s husband’s selling his car—barely used!”
Alina knew Sarah’s husband had overpriced his car for a year. But before she could argue, Ewan whined, “Unlock Nan’s room, love. Jack can have the sofa bed. We’ll move the armchair to the cottage.”
Nan had died two months ago. She’d raised Alina when her mother remarried and left her behind. Ewan had been there through the grief, wedding plans a reluctant distraction. Alina couldn’t let go—the room stayed untouched, a sanctuary.
Now, she stepped inside, shut the door, and crumpled into Nan’s chair, sobbing. The fiancé’s family had pushed her too far. Then, warmth—like Nan’s hand on her shoulder—and her voice: “Alina, don’t rush. Happiness won’t run away.” A lifetime of comfort. But Nan was gone.
Five minutes later, Alina wiped her tears. She rang work, shifting her leave two weeks early. Over the kitchen clamour, she called a travel-agent friend. A last-minute flight? Luck was on her side—departure that evening.
Quietly, she dressed, grabbed her savings and suitcase, and slipped out. At the agency, she finalised the trip, then texted Ewan: “We’re done. No wedding. Katy’s collecting the keys—don’t linger. Goodbye.”
She rang neighbour Katy to retrieve the keys, hoping Ewan wouldn’t call. Then, phone off, she hailed a cab. For the first time in years, she breathed free.
