The traffic had ground to a halt, a solid wall of unmoving metal stretching as far as the eye could see. Not a single car had budged in either direction for the past half hour. Every window was rolled up tight, air conditioning humming against the oppressive heat outside—thirty degrees and climbing, just as the weather report had warned.
The air above the sun-baked tarmac shimmered, warping the stationary cars into watery mirages. Inside the Toyota, the cool air offered little relief. Sitting idle, staring at the frozen tableau of gridlock, had long since lost its novelty.
Emma unscrewed the cap of her plastic water bottle and took a few gulps. Oliver noticed there was barely a third left. She kept drinking without offering him any. Not that he’d have taken it—he’d have insisted she have the last drop. But she drank as if he weren’t even there.
“How much longer is this going to take?” Emma snapped, irritation sharp in her voice.
They hadn’t spoken since leaving the countryside cottage. Her silence was worse than shouting. At least yelling would have meant engagement. Instead, she’d shut down for hours—sometimes days—her every gesture screaming that Oliver was at fault. He’d apologize, endure her monotone lectures, and eventually, they’d move on.
“Why are you just sitting there? Do something,” she lashed out again, as if the standstill on the M25 were his doing.
This time, he stayed quiet. What was there to say?
“And why did we even bother going to that stupid cottage? Fine for you, but me? Just sitting outside like some unwanted guest while you fawn over your daughter? I could’ve been shopping. Or having ice cream with Nicole.” She sniffed, wiping her nose.
“Great. Now I’m getting sick from this AC,” she muttered.
Oliver turned it off.
“Are you joking? The car’ll be an oven in minutes. Do you want us to suffocate?” Her voice was laced with disgust.
He couldn’t remember her ever talking this much. It unsettled him. But he said nothing, turning the AC back on.
Up ahead, a man weaved between the cars before ducking into one a few rows over.
“Did you see that? He came from further up. Maybe he knows what’s going on,” Emma said.
“Maybe,” Oliver agreed.
“So what are you waiting for? Go ask,” she snapped, not even looking at him.
“What’s the point? If this jam stretches for miles, you think he walked the whole thing in half an hour? Doubt it.” He glanced at her and immediately regretted it, the familiar weight of guilt settling in his chest.
“Look, we can’t just sit here forever. Sooner or later, it’ll clear. Everyone else is waiting. This is the M25, not some backroad. Half of London’s probably stuck.” He trailed off. Emma stayed silent, staring blankly ahead.
“Fine.” Oliver stepped out of the car.
He looked back at the endless rows of cars, identical to the ones ahead. The man had gotten into a red one. Oliver knocked on the side window, and it rolled halfway down.
“Sorry—did you walk up ahead? Any idea what’s happening?” he asked the driver.
“Feels like the whole M25’s jammed. Could be an accident. Or worse—terrorism.”
No new information. He’d already guessed as much. The heat outside was unbearable, like standing in a sauna. By the time he bent down to the window, his shirt was already clinging to his back. He returned to the Toyota just as the radio cut to the news—not a word about the traffic.
“Well? Find out anything?” Emma demanded.
“No. Everything’s shut down for miles. Someone mentioned terrorism.”
“Of course. Why did I even let you talk me into coming?” she groaned.
Oliver agreed silently. He never should’ve persuaded her. He’d have stayed at the cottage with his daughter, as she’d wanted, and driven home in the cool evening. By then, the traffic would’ve cleared.
And it had started so well…
***
Oliver’s phone jolted him awake. Disoriented, he answered without checking the screen.
“Dad, are you coming?” Amelia’s voice, bright and expectant.
“Hello? Did you forget your daughter’s birthday?” His ex-wife’s tone was laced with accusation.
“No, no, I’m on my way now,” he lied, blinking at the sunlight streaming through the windows. The clock read half-nine.
He had remembered—until last night. But then he and Emma had gone out with friends, and it had slipped his mind.
“Dad, I don’t need a present! Just come, I miss you!” Amelia’s voice faded as his ex hung up.
They’d married thirteen years ago. Ten of those had been spent fighting. He hadn’t been in love—just a student who’d woken up next to a vaguely familiar girl at a party. A month later, she’d found him and said she was pregnant.
His parents had been horrified, urging him to get a paternity test. He’d done one—after Amelia was born. She was undeniably his. The moment he’d held her, something in him had shifted. He’d endured the quarrels, the jealousy, for her sake.
Until he met Emma.
Cold, cutting, effortlessly beautiful, she didn’t yell like his ex. She punished with silence. It was her only flaw. She’d parade around the flat in tiny shorts, taunting him. He’d apologize even when he wasn’t at fault.
He’d been grateful just to have her.
After Amelia’s call, Emma had asked what was wrong. He’d admitted everything—forgetting her birthday, the promise to visit the countryside where she and his ex spent summers.
“So you’re leaving? Just like that? Leaving me alone all weekend?” Emma had pouted, standing naked as she walked to the bathroom.
The sight of her had short-circuited his brain. He’d followed.
“Come with me,” he’d blurted.
“You’re inviting me to your ex-wife’s place?”
“Why not? We’re divorced. It’s beautiful there—forest, river, we could swim…”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. But we need to hurry.”
They’d bought Amelia a gift and driven out. Just as he’d expected, Emma chickened out at the last minute, waiting in the car.
Amelia had thrown herself into his arms, and Oliver had realized just how much he’d missed her. Time had flown. When he’d said he had to leave, she’d burst into tears.
His ex had stood nearby, listening as he made excuses about traffic, work the next day…
“Your dad has to go. Someone’s waiting in the car. Too scared to come in, huh?” His ex had smirked.
Oliver hadn’t even looked at her.
“I’ll visit next Sunday,” he’d promised, prying Amelia’s arms from around him. His heart had ached—love and guilt tangling together.
He’d thought he’d been quick, but forty minutes had passed. Emma had glared when he returned, turning away without a word. He’d started the car, stealing one last glance at the house. Through the fence, he’d seen his ex and Amelia. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she’d been smirking.
He’d apologized the whole drive. How could he just leave when Amelia was crying? Emma had stayed silent, even as they’d crawled into gridlock.
Why had he dragged her along?
***
“Why did you even make me come?” Emma asked again.
“I thought—how was I supposed to know we’d get stuck?” he exploded. “I’m not a bloody psychic.”
She blinked, startled by his outburst.
“Don’t shout at me,” she hissed.
“Sorry. Let’s just wait it out.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?” Her tone made his stomach drop.
“You don’t get it.” Her calm cut deeper than any scream. “I don’t love you. Haven’t for a while. I can’t do this anymore. You can’t decide anything.”
She stepped out, turning to face him, one hand on the door. Which was why she didn’t see the cars behind her lurch forward.
“I don’t love you!” she repeated, stepping back to slam the door.
“Emma, wait—!” Oliver shouted, but it was too late.
The van was already accelerating.
Then the row of cars began moving, drivers honking, impatient after the long wait.
Emma lay unconscious but with no visible injuries.
“I didn’t do anything—you saw, she just—” the van driver stammered.
“Help me get her in the car,” Oliver said.
Who knew when an ambulance would arrive? He drove her to the nearest hospital himself, the van following. A young doctor assured him there were no fractures, just observation needed.
The next day, Oliver brought flowers and fruit.
Inside her room, the doctor was holding Emma’s hand. She was smiling at himOliver closed the door quietly, knowing some endings weren’t his to fix.
