Bella had the keys to her house. Tiny bubbles raced to the top of champagne. Cheers!
Renovations were started. Husband turned large downstairs cupboard into washroom with a toilet. The kitchen was ripped out and replaced with a brand spanker. Windows were changed throughout. And a new front door with shiny unused keys.
I received a telephone call: Boyfriend’s Dad had fallen off a ladder at the house. Could I take him to hospital? I rushed over. ‘Don’t tell the wife,’ he demanded, ‘Her nerves are bad.’
His leg had broken, and he was laid up for months.
Husband and I carried on renovating. Daughter was busy with her workload. Boyfriend? Got himself an evening job at a supermarket, and got tired easily. Bless.
Church was booked for the wedding at his parish. He is a Catholic, their faith not ours.
My husband and I returned from a holiday. Our daughter greeted us with a trace of tears still visibly shown on her face.
There had been a pre-marital meeting: the priest held out a document, and urged Bella to sign it. She would not. He slammed the offered pen on the table. She disobeyed the priest, and would not commit any future children to a Catholic schooling. The priest refused to join Bella and Boyfriend in matrimony in his church.
Boyfriend’s mother was in a rage. Trouble? It was brewing.