A Dream on Wheels: A Journey Through Pain and Freedom
Emily and James, living in a quiet town on the outskirts of Manchester, have finally fulfilled their long-held dream. For years, they saved every penny, denying themselves small and large comforts, selling vegetables from their allotment, and taking on odd jobs. They shared one unwavering goal: to buy a reliable car and embark on the journey they had dreamed of since their wedding day.
Now, the dream is real. Parked in the garage beside their battered Vauxhall sits a gleaming black SUV. James, glowing with pride, circles it, gently tracing the polished bodywork as if afraid to scare it away. Emily sits in the passenger seat, eyes closed, imagining the distant horizons they had yearned to see together.
The route was meticulously planned years ago. James calculated the fuel consumption, marked the petrol stations and campsites, and mapped each day’s drive, including rest stops. He handled all the practicalities: the road, car maintenance, and navigation. Emily, meanwhile, compiled a list of cafés and restaurants where they’d sample local cuisine. She researched every landmark along the way—where to take photos, what to visit, which museums to explore. Their preparation was flawless, as if they were planning the expedition of a lifetime.
They never told their daughter or son-in-law about their dream. It was their secret, their private wish. Why involve the children?
Summer was fading. With the last chores at the allotment done, they were finally ready to set off. That day, they closed up for the season—turned off the water, stored the tools, and loaded jars of pickles, apples, and carrots into the boot of the old Vauxhall. The twenty-mile drive home passed in a blur. James hummed a favourite tune, while Emily gazed out the window, smiling in anticipation of their grand adventure.
Then, the humming stopped. James clutched the steering wheel, his face pale, and slammed on the brakes. The car skidded, the seatbelt digging into Emily’s chest. James slumped forward onto the wheel. She froze, unable to move, before screaming and lunging for him. He wasn’t breathing. Her fingers trembled, her heart pounded, her mind refused to accept what had happened.
Emily dialled 999, grabbed a water bottle, dampened a cloth, trying to revive him. But he didn’t respond. The paramedics, arriving minutes later, confirmed the worst: James was gone. They spoke about his heart, but their words dissolved into ringing silence. The police came, then their daughter and son-in-law. Questions, condolences. Their daughter sobbed, while Emily sat motionless in the passenger seat, watching as they took her Jim away.
The days that followed were a haze. Emily moved mechanically—going where she was led, doing what was asked, nodding when expected. She didn’t cry; the tears had withered inside. Her soul seemed to have died with James, leaving behind only a hollow shell trapped within the walls of their flat.
Nine days passed, then forty, then three months. Their daughter, Sophie, visited often, bringing groceries, trying to coax her mother into speaking. But Emily remained distant, ghostlike.
Then one day, Sophie suddenly asked:
“Mum, whose car is in our garage?”
“Jim bou—” Emily began, but her voice cracked.
Memories flooded back: buying the car, James’s exhilaration, his booming laugh, their plans. Her breath hitched, tears burning her eyes. She wept uncontrollably, the first time in months, deaf to Sophie’s questions—”Dad bought it? When? Why didn’t you say? How?” The words tumbled out, but Emily couldn’t answer. She cried until exhaustion took her.
She slept fitfully, waking at dawn with the realisation: she had to keep living. Without him. It would hurt, nearly unbearably, but she had to.
With spring’s arrival, Emily prepared to visit the allotment—out of habit, perhaps, or to stave off the emptiness. In Jim’s rucksack—untouched since that day—she found a familiar folder. Faded, well-worn, containing their dream.
She opened it. Her heart pounded, then clenched. “What dream now? There is no dream,” she thought bitterly, snapping it shut. She meant to put it away but shoved it into her bag instead.
She took the train to the allotment. Her son-in-law had promised to drive her in the SUV, but life had kept him busy. Emily didn’t mind. She understood—the young had their own lives. The car? Let them have it. She no longer needed it.
That evening, sitting in the quiet of the allotment shed, she remembered the folder. She pulled it out, opened it—then slammed it shut. The pain was raw. The next night, she tried again. She flipped through the pages, then read. And every evening after, she returned to Jim’s notes—his careful records of routes, petrol stations, campsites. Each day, the grief softened slightly, and a spark flickered in her heart. It felt like he was there, planning their journey with her.
By summer’s end, Emily had come back to life. She knew what to do. Back in the city, she enrolled in driving lessons—not just the basics, but advanced ones. A solo journey was no small feat. The young instructor eyed her sceptically, but she gripped the wheel stubbornly, practising until her hands shook.
And she did it. The licence was in her pocket.
One evening, she visited Sophie’s flat. The SUV was parked outside. Emily ran a hand along its side, noting the faint scratches. She called Sophie, asked for the keys and paperwork. She checked the documents, took the keys, and slid behind the wheel.
Gently, she touched the steering wheel, started the engine, rested her hand on the gearstick. Under her daughter’s stunned gaze, she drove away. Three days later, she crossed the border into the first country on the route she and Jim had planned.
She would talk to Sophie later. She would understand.
