Oh man, let me tell you this one.
So, there were Emily and James, living in this tiny town just outside Manchester, right? They’d been dreaming about this forever—saving up every penny, selling veggies from their garden patch, taking on odd jobs. Just scraping by, all for one thing: a proper, solid car and the big road trip they’d talked about since their wedding day.
And then—it happened! Next to their beat-up old Rover, there it was: this sleek black SUV, shining like new. James was practically glowing, pacing around it, running his fingers over the paint like he was afraid it might vanish. Emily sat in the passenger seat, eyes closed, imagining all the places they’d promised each other they’d see.
They’d planned it *down to the mile*. James had mapped out every fuel stop, every campsite, every twist and turn of the route. He handled the car, the route, all the nuts and bolts. Emily? She researched every café, every must-see spot—where to eat, what landmarks to hit, which museums were worth the detour. It was military precision, like they were prepping for the expedition of a lifetime.
They hadn’t told their daughter or son-in-law. This was *their* dream, their secret. No need to drag the kids into it, you know?
Summer was winding down. Just a few last chores at their little countryside plot, then—freedom. That day, they packed up the Rover with the last of the jars, apples, and tools, and headed home, the twenty miles flying by. James was humming some old tune, Emily smiling out the window, already lost in the adventure ahead.
Then—the humming stopped. James’ hands locked on the wheel, his face went white, and he slammed the brakes. The car skidded. Emily gasped as the seatbelt bit into her chest—then she saw him slump forward. Frozen at first, she snapped into action, screaming, grabbing for him. But he wasn’t breathing. Her hands shook as she dialled emergency, fumbling with a wet cloth, begging him to wake up.
The medics arrived fast. Too late. Police came. Their daughter, Charlotte, showed up, sobbing. Emily? Just sat there, hollow, watching them take James away.
The next months bled together. Emily moved like a ghost—nodding, eating when told, staring at walls. No tears, just… nothing. Like part of her had left with him.
Three months in, Charlotte finally asked, *”Mum… whose car’s in our garage?”*
*”James b-bought—”* Emily’s voice cracked, and then—floodgates. She *sobbed*, months of grief crashing out while Charlotte fired questions (*”Dad got a car? When? Why didn’t you tell us?”*). But Emily couldn’t answer. She just cried until she was empty.
Then, one morning, she woke up and *knew*. She had to keep living. Without him.
Come spring, she went back to their little garden plot—maybe out of habit, maybe to outrun the quiet. In James’ old rucksack (untouched since *that day*), she found a battered black folder. Their dream, right there in her hands.
She *hated* opening it. *”What dream now? There* is *no dream!”* But she kept going back, night after night, poring over his notes—every route, every campsite, every little detail. The pain ebbed, just a little. It felt like he was there, planning it all with her.
By summer’s end, she was different. Signed up for driving lessons—not the easy kind, the *hardcore* stuff. The instructor, this young lad, clearly doubted her. But she gripped that wheel like her life depended on it.
And she *did it*. Licence in her pocket.
One evening, she showed up at Charlotte’s. The SUV was parked outside, a few new scratches on it. She ran her hand over the bonnet, then called her daughter down. Took the keys. Slid into the driver’s seat.
Hands steady, she turned the engine over, shifted gears, and pulled away under Charlotte’s stunned stare. Three days later, she crossed into the first country on their old route.
She’d talk to Charlotte later. She’d understand.
