**Wedding Day Realisation**
I should’ve known something was off when Daniel handed me the ring. We’d met at an office in Manchester—quiet, steady, the sort of bloke who seemed dependable after the chaos of my last relationship. My ex, Christopher, had been all grand gestures and empty pockets, splurging on champagne one night and scrambling for rent the next. Daniel was different. Brought me daffodils, carried my files, spoke softly. I mistook restraint for devotion.
When he moved into my flat, we talked marriage. He suggested saving for the wedding, and I, foolishly charmed, agreed. Colleagues eyed me sideways—”Think twice,” one muttered—but I brushed it off. Envy, I figured. Or perhaps I was just blinded.
He was frugal. At first, I admired it—Christopher had bled me dry with his recklessness—until the day we stopped at a café in Hyde Park. Ravenous after work, I ordered a full meal. Daniel scowled at the menu, demanded tap water, and griped about “daylight robbery.” I paid.
A week before the wedding, I still had no dress. After frantic searching, I found *the* one—ivory lace, delicate as froth, with a train like a cloud. Daniel balked at the price. “Something simpler,” he insisted. I stood my ground. He paid, sighing like a man funding his own execution.
My niece, a waitress at a decent restaurant in Kensington, wrangled us a discount. Still, Daniel carped: “Why splurge? Love’s the only thing that matters.”
The morning of the wedding, I unboxed my gown—and froze. This wasn’t mine. Some ghastly polyester knock-off, seams puckered, likely clearance-bin salvage. In the mirror, I saw a stranger. Daniel shrugged. “Shopkeeper’s mistake,” he said. No apology. No remorse.
At the registry office, I plastered on a smile. *My day*, I reminded myself. We took photos—forced grins, his grip too tight on my waist. Then the “reception.” The taxi veered off-course, stopping not at the restaurant but a dingy caff near Elephant & Castle. Paper napkins, wilting supermarket tulips, flickering fluorescent lights. My family sat inside, bewildered.
Humiliation hit like a wave. I ran. Right there in that hideous dress, heels clattering on pavement, horns blaring. A car slowed. I flung myself in—and there was Christopher. My “wastrel” ex. He didn’t speak, just flicked the indicator and drove me home.
Three months later, I understood. Christopher wasn’t reckless—just young. Now he owned a tidy little firm, paid his bills, proposed properly. Our wedding was everything Daniel’s wasn’t: a velvet-draped hall in Bath, a proper band, my actual dream dress.
Turns out, penny-pinchers aren’t always prudent. And sometimes, generosity isn’t about money—it’s about giving a damn.
