When Dreams Come True
“Young man, you hit my car!” A slender woman wrapped in a white coat stood on the pavement, her breath visible in the chilly air.
“Park properly next time,” muttered James. “Rich people buying their licences and causing accidents. Honestly, women shouldn’t even be allowed to drive.”
“Oh, really? With snowbanks everywhere, where exactly was I supposed to park? On that pile?” She pointed a gloved finger at a towering mound of snow. “I’m calling the police!”
James’ defiance vanished. He’d already been fined for speeding this month—he couldn’t afford another penalty.
“Look, my wheel slipped on the ice too. It wasn’t intentional.”
“And?” Her voice was icy.
“Let’s settle this privately.”
“No. It’s the principle. I won’t tolerate misogyny.”
“Misoga-what?”
“Disdain for women!”
James clenched his jaw. “Fine. I was out of line. I’ll pay for the… scratch. Extra for the inconvenience. How much?”
After relentless haggling, she finally relented—though James suspected she’d drawn it out to squeeze more out of him. He paid up, desperate to avoid trouble.
Exhaling sharply, he slumped in his seat. His account was in the red again. And today was Emma’s birthday—he’d forgotten to buy her gift.
Opening his banking app, his stomach dropped. £150 left. Payday was a week away. Swallowing his pride, he dialled his best mate.
“Mate, I’m skint too,” said Chris. “Why’d you give her that much? She’s loaded! Should’ve called the coppers or filed a claim. Quick, no fuss.”
“I’m selling the car. If police log the scratch, it’ll look like a crash. Who’d buy it then?” James groaned. “Anyone you know who could lend me? Just till payday. It’s Emma’s birthday—I can’t show up empty-handed.”
Chris chuckled. “Yeah, she’s not the ‘just a card’ type. But sorry, mate—no one’s got spare cash.”
James tossed his phone into the holder, cracking the window for air. The woman was long gone, yet he remained parked, replaying the spin of his wheels on black ice—the sickening scrape of metal.
Then it hit him.
*The credit card.* Buried in his drawer.
Revitalised, he sped to the jewellers, grabbing the diamond earrings Emma had admired.
That evening, he hovered at her doorstep, heart hammering. In one hand, a bouquet of garden roses. In his pocket, a velvet box.
A year ago, he’d never have believed *her*—the stunning, sharp-witted girl—would give him the time of day. Her father co-owned a luxury department store; her mother ran three spas. Emma’s flat, her car—all bankrolled by them.
And now he stood here, terrified.
“Happy birthday, love!” He thrust the gifts forward.
Emma kissed his cheek. “Oh my God—these are the ones?”
“Yeah…” He flushed.
“You’re mad! They’re so expensive.” She held the earrings to the light, awed. “But… thank you.”
It was always like this. Despite her wealth, Emma budgeted fiercely—shopping at Tesco, cooking at home, cleaning herself. Only once had she hired help—after breaking her ankle.
Yet James felt the gulf between them. His childhood smelled of boiled chicken feet and liver cake, not Michelin stars.
“Hope you don’t mind… I’ve got company,” Emma said.
“Thought the place’d be packed.” He forced a laugh.
“You know I hate big parties. Come on—dinner’s ready.” She led him to the kitchen. “Mum, Dad—this is James.”
He froze but kept his composure, shaking their hands.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” he hissed in Emma’s ear.
“They surprised me. Flew back early.” She squeezed his hand. “Relax—they’re lovely.”
“Mm.”
Her parents’ stares drilled into him, dissecting.
“Tell us about yourself,” her father said, smile strained.
“I’m a bank manager,” James said. “Did a finance degree part-time—”
“Any prospects in banking?” Her mother glanced at her husband, dismissive.
“Limited,” her father agreed, equally ignoring James.
“Disagree,” James cut in. All eyes snapped to him. “I’ll be department head in a year, regional director in three.”
Her mother laughed. “*Those* are prospects?”
“Did you start with three spas?” James countered.
The polite smiles vanished.
“I earned them,” she said coldly. “Started with a single salon.”
“So what’s wrong with starting as a bank manager?”
Emma stormed in, arms crossed. Her new earrings glinted. “Five minutes alone, and you’re already debating?”
Dinner passed in stiff silence. Then—
“James,” her mother smirked, “thoughts on misogyny?”
Everyone stared.
“Detest it,” he said evenly.
“Surprised you know the word.”
“Funny—heard it this morning. From a lady.”
Emma’s gaze darted between them—James tense, her mother predatory. A storm was brewing.
Then she remembered—her mother’s rant about an “aggressive misogynist” earlier.
“*Enough!*” Emma snapped. “Mum, was James that man?”
Her mother feigned innocence.
“Just admit it! You scammed him!” Emma turned to James. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Didn’t want to ruin your day. I *was* in the wrong—lost my temper. But…”
“Wait—you hit her car?” her father interjected.
“Ice sent me into a skid—”
“Show me.” Her father stood.
“It’s *nothing*,” her mother cut in. “We settled it.”
James grabbed his coat.
“*Stop!*” Her mother’s voice cracked. “…There’s no scratch.”
Silence.
“What?” James stiffened.
“I lied. You didn’t hit it.”
“You took *£500* from me!”
“You needed humbling,” she spat. “Men like you—thinking women can’t drive—disgust me. I’ll return the money. But Emma—” She wheeled on her daughter. “A man who’s rude to strangers will turn on you!”
“Get. Out.” Emma’s voice was steel. “All of you.”
James tried apologising—she pointed to the door.
Alone, Emma stared at the stormy sky, eating cake from the tub. Then—a text: *Look outside.*
Her parents and James stood below, waving like madmen. Another text: *We made up. Come sledging.*
Smiling through tears, she grabbed her coat.
“I returned the money!” her mother confessed sheepishly.
“And I apologised,” James added, offering his hand. “Now we’re apologising to *you*.”
“Sledging?” Emma feigned indifference.
“Yes!” Her mother clapped.
After kicking them out, James had insisted on a café talk—owning his temper, explaining his stress over affording her gift.
“He knows you so well,” her mother admitted. “This was *his* idea.”
Tears welled. Emma had dreamed of birthday sledging—racing down hills on linoleum scraps. Yet every year, her parents booked fancy venues, drowning her in pomp.
She’d only mentioned it once—offhand—to James.
Her father pulled a rolled-up linoleum sheet from the car. “Happy birthday, love.”
And just like that, her dream came true.
