The past won’t let go until you make it right…
The café was packed. Victor had booked a table in advance for his birthday—otherwise, they wouldn’t have gotten in. They’d arrived while the sun was still up, but now, darkness pressed against the windows. The air conditioning hummed at full blast, music pulsed through the room, and blue fairy lights flickered along the edges, giving the place a festive glow. All that was missing was the Christmas tree.
“Come on, Vic, let’s dance,” murmured Victoria, his wife, resting her head on his shoulder. A small space near the bar had already been claimed by two swaying couples.
“Ask Ivan. I’ll sit this one out,” Victor said, winking at his friend.
“But I want *you*,” Victoria insisted. “Just once.”
“Honestly, lads, go on without me,” Ivan cut in, standing. “Mum’s blowing up my phone. Better not test her patience. Vic, happy birthday again.” He shook his friend’s hand and headed for the door.
“We’ll stay a bit longer, yeah?” Victoria’s voice chased after him. “It’s so nice and cool in here.”
Outside, the humid night air hit Ivan like a wall. He hadn’t drunk much, but his head felt foggy, his legs unsteady. Probably the heat. His pocket buzzed. He fumbled for his phone.
“John, where *are* you? It’s nearly eleven,” his mother’s voice crackled, tense.
“Mum, I’m on my way. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t *worry*? It’s late!”
“I’ll be home soon,” he muttered, hanging up.
He quickened his pace, breathing deep, hoping to clear his head. Irritation prickled under his skin. Twenty-four years old, and she still treated him like a boy. How was he supposed to date? *Sorry, love, Mum wants me home by ten?* He seethed silently, though he understood her fear. Didn’t make it less suffocating.
Thirteen years ago, his sister Emily had died. The next day, his father dropped dead from a heart attack, grief pounding the life out of him. And Ivan? He carried the guilt for both. Nothing anyone said could shake it—not even Victor’s reassurances.
“You were eleven. What were you supposed to do against three grown lads? You ran for help. That’s not cowardice.”
Logically, yes. But guilt wasn’t logical. It kept him from relationships. He imagined girls could *see* it on him—his shame. Even Victoria. He’d met her first, taken her to the cinema, even kissed her in the dark when she’d grabbed his hand. But then he introduced her to Victor.
“Victoria and Victor—it’s fate,” Victor had laughed.
She’d chosen him. Nothing to be done. Six months ago, they’d married, and Ivan had stood as best man. He’d only regretted it a little. Victoria in white had been breathtaking.
“So when do *I* get to meet your girl?” his mother would ask.
“When I find one like you,” he’d joke.
He meant it. Even at fifty-two, grey-haired from grief, she was striking. Emily had looked just like her—slender, fair-skinned, with sharp grey eyes. Ivan used to watch her brush her long blonde hair, always tied up at home but cascading down her back when she went out. She’d been seventeen forever.
The empty streets dragged memories to the surface. Guilt gnawed at him, relentless. Not a day passed without him thinking of her, without the self-loathing creeping in.
Emily had been quiet, sharp, *home*. She’d teased him, called him “shrimp.” He’d bragged about her to his mates as if her beauty were his doing. Older boys buttered him up to learn who she fancied. She’d ironed clothes, vacuumed, peeled potatoes like it was sacred. Never rushed, but efficient.
If he hadn’t run that night—
When his father died, an idea had seized him: *Make it right.* If *he* died, the scales would balance. At eleven, it made perfect sense.
His mother, shattered but perceptive, had sensed it. One night, she’d sat on his bed—the one he’d once shared with Emily—and begged him not to leave her. If he went, she’d have nothing left.
So he’d stayed. For her.
————
The trees arched overhead, their leaves swallowing the streetlight. The road became a patchwork of shadow and dim gold. The hiss of tyres on wet tarmac sounded like rain. He could’ve used rain.
His own birthday in three months—he’d spend it at home. No cafés. Mum would cook, fuss. Emily’s friends, *his* friends, used to love their house. *Emily.* Why was he thinking of her tonight? If only he hadn’t run—
————
That summer night. Emily had been studying at a friend’s.
“Where *is* she? She left her phone. John, do you know where Lily lives? Go fetch her,” his mother had said. Then, reconsidering: “No, we’ll both go.”
“She’s grown, woman. Don’t embarrass her. It’s not far—let the boy go,” his father had grunted, flipping the newspaper.
Thrilled, Ivan had sprinted off—his first real night-time freedom. At Lily’s, her mother said Emily had left ages ago.
Running back, he’d heard muffled screams. His stomach dropped. He *knew*.
Three lads hunched over something—no, *someone*—in the bushes. One turned, spat. “Piss off, kid.”
Ivan stumbled back, thorns tearing his shirt as he fled. Later, he’d lied to himself—he hadn’t *seen* her.
At home, his father answered the door. “They’re—hurry—!” Ivan gasped, then bolted back outside, his father’s heavy footsteps behind him.
By the time they reached the bushes, police sirens wailed. The lads were gone. Something pale lay crumpled. Ivan collapsed.
His father’s roar wasn’t human.
————
Emily was buried in a closed casket. His father died the next day. The killers were caught quickly—some petty revenge, fear of exposure.
For months, Ivan heard Emily brushing her hair at night. Sometimes, in the moonlight, he swore he saw her.
His mother aged overnight. For a while, she barely registered him. He thought she blamed him too.
That’s when he decided to fix it. *No more me, no more guilt.*
She’d sensed it. Hugged him. “You’re all I have left.”
So he’d stayed.
————
Now, a scuffle. Muffled cries. Memory and present blurred.
“I’ll make it right,” Ivan breathed, and charged.
Two men had a girl pinned. Her pale legs kicked beneath a rumpled dress. He yanked one back, took a knee to his ribs, then a fist to his skull. The pavement rushed up to meet him. Boots thudded into his side. A stone bit into his cheek.
*Did Emily get away? Did I fix it?*
Then—voices. Sirens. Someone lifting him.
“He’ll live?”
Darkness. Then light.
“Son…”
“Mum,” he tried to say.
*Did I die? Emily—?*
His eyes flew open.
“Doctor, he’s awake! Johnny!”
For a second, he thought it was Emily leaning over him.
“The girl?” his mother said. “She’s outside. Called the police. They’ve got the lads.”
“I wanted to fix it.”
“You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
————
The girl—Sophie—visited daily. Fresh out of teacher training.
“We studied psychology,” she said. “You’re stuck in that moment, trying to rewrite it. But you *didn’t* run this time. You saved me. It’s over. Just live.”
By his discharge, he loved her.
They married, moved in with his mother. Emily stopped haunting his dreams. His mother sometimes called Sophie “Emily”—until they named their daughter after her.
The past doesn’t let go until you make it right. Ivan never got Emily back, but the guilt loosened its grip.
Almost.
