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