They say you remember your wedding day forever—the dress, the vows, the feeling that your life is just beginning. I remember mine too. Not for the joy or the promises, but for the quiet, gut-punching realisation: I was marrying the wrong man.
I realised on my wedding day that I was marrying the wrong man.
I met Dennis when I worked in Manchester. He appeared to be calm, steady, reserved—exactly the sort of man I imagined settling down with.
After the chaos of my previous relationship, where emotions ran wild and money disappeared as quickly as it came, being with Dennis felt safe. He wooed me properly—roses, sweet words, carrying my heavy files. I thought, *This is what happiness looks like.*
As he moved in, we started planning our future.
He recommended saving for the wedding, and I was touched.
Although my colleagues gave me odd looks—some even said bluntly, “Are you sure? Dennis isn’t what he seems.” I ignored them. I thought they were jealous. Or maybe I was just head over heels.
He was incredibly frugal, which at first was a relief.
Chris, my ex, had been reckless with money—we split over debt and screaming matches. Dennis was the opposite. He even cooked well.
However, one day, we went to a park and stopped at a cosy café.
I ordered lunch after a long day—he got tap water. Grumbled loudly about how “everything’s daylight robbery,” and in the end, *I* paid.
I brushed it off. Blamed exhaustion. I shouldn’t have.
A week before our wedding, I still had no dress. I searched everywhere, desperate for *the one*—until I found it. Soft as whipped cream, an airy skirt, a sweeping train.
Dennis said it was too much, we could find something simpler. I insisted, and he paid… but not without sulking.
The restaurant was a favour from my cousin, a waitress there who got us a discount. Still, Dennis muttered, “Why spend so much? It’s not about the food, it’s about love.”
Wedding day arrived.
I opened the dress box—my stomach dropped. It wasn’t *my* dress. Cheap, badly stitched, clearly clearance-rack.
In the mirror, I dissolved. Dennis just shrugged. “Must’ve been a mix-up,” he said. No apology. Not even regret.
Clenching my teeth, we went to the registry. Signing, photos—I forced smiles. *This is my day, isn’t it?*
We stopped for professional pictures. I tried to forget the dress, to pretend everything was fine.
Then came the “wedding breakfast.” The driver took a wrong turn—we stopped outside a rundown greasy spoon. Not a banquet hall, not even a proper café. A *caff*.
I stepped out—cheap sweets on plates, flowers from his nan’s garden, flickering fluorescent lights, plastic tablecloths.
My family and friends were already inside. The people I’d invited to celebrate *love*.
Shame, anger, humiliation swallowed me. I turned and ran—ridiculous dress, bare pavement, car horns, strangers staring.
I flagged down the first car I saw.
The driver stopped. I got in—and froze. It was Chris.
The same ex I’d called reckless, unserious. He didn’t say a word, just flicked the indicator, turned the car around, and drove me home.
Three months passed. I’ve had time to think. Chris wasn’t reckless—just inexperienced.
Now he runs his own business, steady, sure of himself.
He proposed quietly, no fuss. I said yes.
Our wedding was what I’d dreamed—my perfect dress, a live band, friends, dancing till dawn. No greasy spoon. No plastic roses. Just joy—warm, real.
