I MISSED MY DESTINY
They say finding love at work isn’t serious. But I wasn’t looking for it. Love found me. Not in the form of a charming colleague with a cup of tea and a tie, but as a silent man in a black BMW waiting in line for petrol. I worked at the petrol station.
At first, he just watched quietly. Then he started to smile. Eventually, it seemed like he’d learned my schedule and only came when I was on shift. My name was Linda. I was 33. Quite the character: platinum blonde, bold, straightforward, with a personality sharpened by working with men. And him… he was different. Aged 42, eyes like the winter sky, shoulders broad as if they could break down walls. And his smile… Warm, calm, slightly boyish.
His name was Chris. He lived in a house near the station with his son and a dog named Rocky. His son was from a previous marriage. His wife left them both. He didn’t work, just lived off rent from four apartments inherited from his grandmother. He traveled, strolled around, and relaxed.
One day, he pulled up to the pump and said, “Let’s go, I’ll show you a city you’ll love.” Then there was another city. And another. We drank beer in nearly empty pubs, stayed in seaside hotels off-season, slept to the sound of waves, wandered through markets in Manchester and Brighton, and listened to jazz in London.
I fell in love. I simply melted into him. I, who always valued freedom and didn’t believe in labels, was living with him within three months. We didn’t make anything official, we just were together.
Initially, I talked about having a child. I dreamed, imagined us walking together as a family: him, me, and a little one. But Chris was firm. He said he had already “done his time” as a parent and wasn’t signing up for a second round. Most of all, kids get in the way of freedom.
“You won’t be able to fly off to Edinburgh for the weekend if you’re pregnant, Linda, and certainly not with a pram later. It would be captivity, not life.” He said this so calmly, so assuredly, that I, as if hypnotized, began to fear having a child.
Years passed like this. I became a bleached hostess in his carefree life. Cooking, ironing, buying his favorite snacks, laughing at the right moments, while he… He watched more football, lazily flicked through the paper, and told me I was “the one.”
His son grew up. At first, he despised me. Then he became interested. Eventually, he brought home a girl—one just like I had been six years ago. Young, vibrant, blonde. She stayed over, laughed at my jokes, called me “Linnie.”
I looked at her and understood everything. I wanted to shout, “Run! Don’t miss your life like I did! Don’t dissolve, don’t lose your voice, keep dreaming. You can still change everything!”
But me? I’ve stopped believing. I’m 39. I have no children. I quit my job, drifted from friends, lost my parents. It’s just me, Chris, Rocky, and a rusting love that’s more a habit than anything else.
He still doesn’t work. Still collects rent from the flats, still drinks beer every night. And I still put a salad in front of him, waiting. Waiting to feel once more that not everything is lost. But it’s a lie I tell myself.
Sometimes, while he sleeps, I step out onto the balcony and gaze up at the stars. I think if I wished hard enough, everything could change. But it’s too late. Far too late.
