No One’s Fault, or Just the Way the Stars Align
James held the restaurant door open for his wife, letting her step through first. The door closed smoothly behind them, muffling the beat of the music and the chatter of tipsy voices. In the distance, the uneven glow of city lights flickered, connected to them by a winding trail of streetlamps cutting through the darkness.
“You look pale… Maybe we should call a taxi after all?” asked Emily.
“No need, we’ll manage. It was just stuffy in there. I’ll cool down, and we’ll drive home.” James wrapped an arm around her.
“But you’ve had a drink,” Emily pressed.
“Hardly anything, and that was hours ago. It’s out of my system by now. Besides, the roads are quiet at this hour. Don’t worry,” James reassured her.
“Mum called. Jack won’t go to sleep without us,” Emily sighed. “I’m exhausted.”
“Then let’s head home? Half an hour and we’ll be there.” James fished the keys from his jacket pocket and pressed the fob. Somewhere in the car park, their Vauxhall beeped back, its headlights flashing twice.
James navigated out of the car park of the upscale countryside restaurant, steering confidently toward the city. In the passenger seat, Emily stretched her tired legs and let her head fall back against the headrest—no need to worry about her hair now.
“Paul’s wedding turned out nice, didn’t it? Still, ours was better,” James said, watching the restaurant lights shrink in the rearview mirror.
“Honestly, I barely remember ours,” Emily admitted, closing her eyes.
“Neither do I,” James replied.
“No one remembers their own wedding. Maybe that’s why it always seems better than everyone else’s.”
“True,” James chuckled.
“Maybe Mum should stay the night at ours. By the time we get back, then you’d have to drive her home…” Emily yawned.
“Of course, she can stay. I’m knackered too.”
“I told you we should’ve taken a taxi. You never listen,” Emily murmured weakly.
“Too late now. Don’t fancy coming back tomorrow to fetch the car.”
Emily didn’t answer. She sat with her eyes shut, dreaming of getting home, changing out of her tight shoes—which had rubbed her feet raw—into soft slippers, showering…
Had she opened her eyes, she’d have seen James gripping the wheel, his knuckles white, his gaze fixed intently on the road ahead. His forehead was slick with sweat, his breathing uneven. Emily noticed none of it.
James hadn’t told her, but he already regretted driving. His chest ached, his heart squeezing painfully with every beat. The pain sharpened with each thud, his breath coming harder. Should he pull over? No—better to get home fast, lie down…
Trees lined the road like a dark wall, and the city taunted him, refusing to grow nearer, as though slipping further away. James pressed the accelerator—then agony ripped through his chest, his vision blackening. The collision shook the outskirts of the sleeping town, but James never heard it.
The lorry driver leapt from his cab and sprinted toward the crumpled car pinned under his front wheels. He knew at once the driver was dead. The woman beside him—he tried the door, jammed. Reaching through the shattered window, he fumbled for a pulse in her neck. Pointless. His hands shook too much.
He called an ambulance and waited.
They cleared him. The Vauxhall driver’s blood showed alcohol; the autopsy revealed he’d died of a massive heart attack before the crash, sending the car veering into oncoming traffic…
The lorry driver visited the hospital to check on the woman. She’d had two surgeries but needed another—an artificial hip joint, or she’d never walk again. The procedure wasn’t cheap.
***
“Tom, finally! I found the perfect flat. Everything we wanted—fifth floor, freight lift, city centre, brilliant layout. Needs work, of course, but I haggled the price down. We’ll see it tomorrow. How much do we have saved? If you haven’t touched it, it should cover it,” Sophie chattered excitedly as Tom washed his hands in the bathroom.
She hovered in his path, searching his face.
“Wait, Sophie,” Tom nudged her aside and walked out.
“Wait for what? This place won’t last. I persuaded the owner to hold it. I couldn’t reach you—your phone was off.” Sophie trailed him to the kitchen.
“I don’t answer when I’m driving,” Tom sat at the table. “Let me eat first,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes.
Sophie grabbed a plate, lifted the saucepan lid, then froze.
“Changed your mind about the flat?” She whirled to face him. “Plans changed, have they? Quit a good job to drive for pennies… Found someone else? Why won’t you talk?”
“Don’t be daft. There’s no one. No money, either,” Tom said quietly.
“What?” Sophie sank onto a chair, clutching the empty plate. “Where is it? Bought your mistress a place?”
“Enough!” Tom snapped. “I gave it to that woman—to the hospital, for her operation.”
“The one whose husband died in the crash? But you were cleared! I don’t understand.”
“I wasn’t at fault. Neither was he. Wrong place, wrong time. He died, she’s disabled, and there’s a boy…”
“Felt sorry for her? What about me? About us? Years of saving, never home. Stuck in this tiny flat. I’d found the perfect place, picked out furniture… You’ve lost it.” Sophie slammed the plate down and stormed out.
Tom sighed, following. She sat on the sofa, arms folded, staring at the darkening window. He touched her shoulder. She jerked away.
“Sorry I didn’t ask. But I earned that money—it was mine to spend. We’re alive, healthy. She’s crippled, raising a child alone. I couldn’t live knowing—”
“Why you?” Sophie’s voice cracked.
“I just couldn’t.”
“We’ll never save that much again.” Sophie sniffled.
“What do we need a big flat for? If we’d had kids…”
“Now it’s my fault we don’t? I wanted to adopt!” Sophie sobbed, shoulders shaking.
“Kids? I’m nearly fifty. Should be thinking of grandkids. And you’re not far behind.”
Sophie screamed, hurled accusations, threw things. Then shoved a pillow at him and banished him to the kitchen’s narrow sofa.
Tom lay awake, tossing, sighing. How could he explain? He was tired—of long hauls, sleepless drives. Getting old. They’d cleared him, but guilt clung. He replayed the crash endlessly.
He’d been leaving town, merging onto the ring road. The road was clear—then, out of nowhere, the car. He’d slammed the brakes, but lorries don’t stop fast. What else could he’ve done? The other driver had already died.
After, he quit. Started driving a cab. Less pay, but peace of mind.
He’d visited the hospital, seen the woman. Always asleep—sedated, probably. The doctors had done their best, but she’d never walk without a new hip. They couldn’t do it there—needed specialists from London, but moving her was risky. The London team would come, but it cost.
So he’d sent the money. Every penny. Rehabilitation wasn’t cheap. Asked them not to tell her it was from him.
He knew her address, where she lived with her son. But he couldn’t bring himself to go. What would he say? Would she even want his apologies? Or just blame him? He was alive; her husband wasn’t. He’d driven past her street so many times—never stopped.
Two weeks after the fight, Sophie still cooked, cleaned, but wouldn’t speak. He stayed on the kitchen sofa. Then one day, he came home to a suitcase in the hall. He’d expected it.
She left on her own. Called him a loser, a fool. Later, he heard she’d moved in with an old friend—a widower.
One day, he drove to the woman’s street again. Why? He didn’t know. A Saturday in August. Bright orange rowan berries blazed in her front garden.
He got out, staring at the house, guessing which window was hers. Too afraid to knock. Then a woman with a cane came into the yard, arguing with a ten-year-old boy over a heavy bag.
“Come on, Jack, give it here. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Need a hand?” Tom stepped forward.
“Who’re you?” The woman tensed.
“Tom Wilson. Yes—the one whose lorry your husband hit.” He took the bag from the boy. It was heavy.
“I don’t want anything from you. Just wanted to help. Second floor?”
She nodded,Years later, as they sat together under the same rowan tree watching Jack—now grown—play with his own children, Tom finally understood that sometimes, the hardest roads lead to the most unexpected happiness.
