Emma graduated from teacher training college with top honors, dreaming of enrolling at university. But those dreams never came true. Her father was badly injured in a car crash and spent months in hospital. When he was discharged, her mother took leave from work to care for him at home until he adjusted to life in a wheelchair.
Their town had no university—she’d have to move to a nearby city. Emma decided to postpone her studies. She couldn’t leave her parents alone in such a difficult time. Instead, she took a job at a local primary school.
The doctors had given them hope—with time, physiotherapy, and medication, her father might walk again. Her mother sold their holiday cottage to pay for a physiotherapist and expensive prescriptions. But her father never left his wheelchair.
“Enough,” he said one day. “Don’t waste money on me. I’ll never walk again.”
His temper soured—he became irritable, suspicious, picking fights over everything. Most of it fell on her mother. If he called for her, she had to drop everything and run to him—usually just for a glass of water or idle chatter. Meanwhile, dinner burned on the stove.
“Dad, you could wheel yourself to the kitchen. Now the potatoes are ruined,” her mother scolded.
“My whole life’s ruined, and you’re worried about potatoes? Easy for you to say—you have working legs. Is it so hard to bring me a drink?” he’d snap.
Sometimes, in a rage, he’d throw a glass or plate at her. Worse, he started drinking. Vodka only made his bitterness sharper—as if her mother were to blame for the accident.
“Don’t drink, Dad. It won’t help. Play chess, read a book—anything,” Emma pleaded.
“What do you know? Trying to take my last bit of joy? Those books of yours are full of lies. Go read them yourself.” He’d grumble, “I’m useless now.”
“Mum, stop buying him vodka,” Emma begged.
“If I don’t, he’ll scream all night. He’s suffering. What else can we do?” her mother sighed.
“He should be doing his exercises! The doctors said he could walk again, but he won’t even try. He just enjoys tormenting us,” Emma fumed.
She pitied him, but the strain wore on them both. One evening, Emma came home exhausted, her throat sore, desperate to lie down. But her father kept calling for her. Finally, she snapped.
“Enough! I’m worn out. You’ve got wheels—go to the kitchen yourself and drink all you like. You’re not the only one in a wheelchair—hundreds of people live like this, even compete in the Paralympics. But you can’t manage a trip to the kitchen? Go on, then. I need to prep my lessons.” She marched to her room.
She heard the wheels of his chair creak across the floor, the clatter of a glass in the kitchen, then the sound passing her door—hesitating for a second. She braced for him to barge in, shouting. But the wheels rolled on. After that, he became more self-sufficient.
On warm days, she left the balcony door open. He’d sit by it—his version of “fresh air.” The narrow threshold kept him from going out, though. Widening the door would cost money they didn’t have.
“Put me in a care home,” he’d slur after drinking.
“Don’t say that! You’re alive—that’s what matters,” her mother soothed.
“You’ll get tired of emptying my bedpan. You’ll stay out of pity. Why bother with a cripple? You’re still young…”
And so, life went on. A year slipped by unnoticed before another rainy autumn arrived. One afternoon, Emma left school just as a downpour began. She ducked under the bus shelter, but icy spray from speeding cars drenched her anyway. She stood there, shivering like a ruffled sparrow.
Suddenly, a lorry pulled up. A man jumped out, holding his jacket overhead as he dashed to her.
“Hop in, I’ll drive you home.”
Emma, soaked and freezing, climbed into the warm cab that smelled of diesel and engine oil.
“Christopher,” he said.
“Emma.”
“Short for Emmeline, eh? Where to?”
She gave her address. As they drove, Christopher explained why he’d become a trucker.
“Mum raised me alone. Time I looked after her. A neighbour got me work in his garage. After the army, I got my licence. Pays well—plus side jobs hauling stuff. Need a lift? Call me.” Just like that, he was on first-name terms.
“You at uni or working?” he asked.
“I teach at the primary school.”
“Nice,” he nodded. “I’ll swing by, pick you up after work—make all the mums jealous. What’s funny? No one else has a truck like this.”
He was easy to talk to. What if she did need help? She gave him her number. That evening, he called and asked her to the cinema.
“Sorry, I can’t. My dad’s in a wheelchair.”
“What if I come by your place?”
“Why?”
“I want to see you. Fancy you,” he admitted bluntly.
“What if I don’t fancy you back?”
“Why not? Not handsome enough? Ashamed of a trucker?” he bristled.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend. Fine, I’ll come out.”
The next day, a horn blared outside. Emma peeked out to see his lorry.
“Who’s that? A suitor?” her mother guessed.
“Just a friend. I’ll be five minutes.”
“Go on, before he wakes the whole street.”
Christopher started visiting daily—sometimes picking her up from school. They’d sit in the cab, drinking tea from his flask, eating sandwiches his mother had packed.
“Seen a lot of him lately. A real catch,” her mother remarked one evening as the lorry pulled away.
“He’s not a ‘catch.’”
“Why not? Youth doesn’t last. Your friends are all marrying. Planning to stay single till retirement? He’s not driving you around for nothing.”
“Mum, I’ve got marking to do,” Emma deflected, escaping to her room.
Christopher had already mentioned marriage a few times, but Emma stalled him. Her heart didn’t race when she saw him. She hated how often he talked about money.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got savings for the wedding. Autumn’s busy—firewood deliveries, farm hauls. You won’t go hungry with me,” he’d say, squeezing her in the cramped cab. “Upgrading to a proper car soon.”
No flowers—a waste of money, he said. No restaurants—just flask tea and sandwiches. Sometimes, when his mother visited her sister, he’d bring Emma to his flat. Sex was efficient, passionless. Rare, too—Emma invented excuses.
She knew she didn’t love him. But where else would she meet someone? Christopher was steady—no drinking, no smoking. Her mother nudged her. So, Emma accepted his proposal, bargaining to delay the wedding till summer.
Winter usually dragged, but spring came fast. After the bank holidays, Christopher insisted on filing the paperwork. He’d handle everything—she just needed to buy a dress and show up.
One day, rushing home, Emma collided with a man in her dim hallway. Apologising, she tried to pass.
“Emma!?”
She turned, squinting.
“Paul? Didn’t recognise me?”
“Paul? You’re back?”
Her childhood friend—once a scrawny boy, now tall and broad-shouldered. His parents used to bring him from London to stay with his gran next door each summer. Emma had spent days with him—eating his gran’s potato fritters, exploring the countryside. In second year, they’d vowed to stay together always.
Now, grown and awkward, they’d drifted apart.
“I’m visiting Gran—her seventy-fifth. You’ve turned out lovely,” Paul said, studying her.
“You’ve changed too,” Emma murmured, heart fluttering under his gaze.
“Working or studying?”
“Teaching. Dad’s in a wheelchair after the crash…”
“Gran told me. Any hope he’ll walk?”
“The doctors say yes. But he refuses. Drinks,” she admitted, eyes downcast.
“And you? Happy?”
“Getting married,” she blurted, then flushed.
“Who’s the lucky man?”
“Sorry—Mum’s waiting.” She hurried upstairs, feeling his eyes on her.
Suddenly, Christopher’s nightly arrivals embarrassed her. She scowled climbing into his cab, certain Paul was watching.
“Getting cold feet? Saw you with Paul again,” her mother noted.
“Just friends. Since we were kids.”
But Emma adored Paul. His morning texts, little bouquets—her heart soared. She forgot Christopher entirely.
Compared to Paul, practical Christopher seemed dull. She began avoiding him. He’d honk until neighbours shouted, her mother begging her to end the spectacle.
One night, sheOne year later, as Emma stood beside Paul at the altar, her father took his first unsteady steps toward her—leaning on his cane but finally walking on his own.
