**The Road We Never Took Together**
Claire and Robert Wilson had dreamt of one thing—a car. Not just a hunk of metal on wheels, but a ticket to the very freedom they’d imagined since their wedding day. Nearly thirty years of work, weekends at the cottage, odd jobs, countless small sacrifices—all for this one dream: to buy a car and set off on a journey together. No schedules, no rush, just the two of them and the open road.
And they did it. A silver Hyundai Tucson now sat in their old garage beside the faithful Ford Fiesta that had served them for years. Robert walked around the car like a child with a prized toy, running his hand over the bonnet, peering inside. Claire could already picture them speeding across unfamiliar bridges, camping under the stars, sipping coffee at motorway services, watching sunsets in towns they’d never seen before.
Their plan had been ready for ages. Every detail was mapped out: the route, overnight stops, places to eat, packing lists. Robert would handle the driving and the tech—he’d studied the map, noted down campsites and petrol stations, calculated distances, even printed a timetable. Claire took care of the atmosphere, the food, the memories. Her notebook was filled with cosy pubs serving local fare, must-see landmarks, perfect photo spots. They told no one—this was their story, private and cherished.
Summer was fading. There were just a few last chores at the cottage. September had arrived, and a brisk wind whispered of autumn’s approach. They headed back to town—twelve miles to their flat. The sun dipped low, Claire gazed out the window, and Robert hummed quietly. Everything felt perfect.
Until, in an instant, it wasn’t.
He slammed the brakes, gripped the wheel, his body jerked forward—then went still. The car stopped in the middle of the road. Claire was thrown against her seatbelt, disoriented at first. Then came the scream, the panic. Robert didn’t respond. Just slumped, his head against the wheel.
She called an ambulance, tried to rouse him. The paramedics arrived quickly, but… He wasn’t breathing.
A heart attack. Instant. The seatbelt still carried the faint scent of his aftershave, but he was gone.
There were formalities: police, their daughter and son-in-law, tears, questions. But Claire heard none of it. She sat in the car, frozen in the same spot where she’d been dreaming moments before. She watched as they took him away. Not a single tear fell. She felt hollow.
Nine days passed. Then forty. Then three months.
Her daughter visited, brought meals, cleaned. Tried to coax her into conversation. It was no use. Claire had retreated into herself. She moved mechanically—cooking soup, sleeping, waking—but her soul was numb.
Then one day, her daughter asked, as if casually:
“Mum, that silver car—whose is it?”
“Robert’s…” Claire began, and suddenly, the memories struck like a blow. Images flashed before her: him deliberating over the colour, grinning as he plotted petrol stops, scribbling notes… And then, for the first time, she wept—not quietly, not restrained, but with a raw, gasping pain that frightened her daughter. She cried all day and most of the night. Then she slept. And when she woke, she knew: she had to live. For him.
In spring, she returned to the cottage. She opened Robert’s untouched backpack and found a blue folder. Their route. His handwriting. His notes: “coffee stop here,” “you’ll want a photo here.”
She snapped it shut. Tears threatened; anger seethed. “What bloody dream?” she wanted to scream. She nearly threw it out. But couldn’t. Tucked it into her bag instead.
Now she took the train to the cottage. Her son-in-law had taken the car—promised to drive her, but life got in the way. She didn’t mind. Didn’t need it anymore.
But in the evenings, she opened the folder. At first, furtively. Then regularly. Read. Remembered. It was as if he were there, whispering, “Let’s go, Claire.”
One night, she made a decision. Back in town, she enrolled in a course—not just any, but advanced driving. The instructor, a bloke in his twenties, scoffed at first. But Claire was stubborn. She trained, gripped the wheel like her life depended on it.
She got her licence. A proper one. With the endorsement. Proudly.
Then she went to her daughter. Calm. Certain.
“Emily, love, fetch the keys. And the paperwork.”
She took them, walked to the car. Stroked it. Got in. Started the engine.
Then drove away without a word. Three days later, she crossed the Channel—into the country where their journey was meant to begin.
She went further.
She’d talk to Emily later. She’d understand. This was her and Robert’s dream. And now—it was Claire’s road. A road without him. But still, somehow, together.
