A Dream Postponed: Betrayal and Liberation
For as long as she could remember, Eleanor had dreamed of visiting Italy. She imagined wandering Rome’s ancient streets, watching the sunset over the Amalfi Coast, where golden sunlight kissed the white cliffs. It was her deepest wish—a reward for years of hard work, a long-awaited escape from the monotony of life in a quiet town along the Thames. But every time she mentioned the trip, her husband, William, found an excuse to delay it.
“Next summer, I promise, we’ll go,” he’d say, year after year, his words hollow as an echo. “We’ve got to finish the renovations, pay off the loan, save a bit more.” At first, Eleanor believed him. She’d shared her dream of Italy since their early days of marriage, and William had sworn they’d go together. She started setting money aside, carefully saving every spare pound, clinging to the hope that one day, they’d step onto Italian soil. But the years passed, and “next summer” became an endless excuse. Work drained his time, the boiler broke, savings never seemed enough. She convinced herself it was temporary—they would go eventually.
By sixty, Eleanor had saved enough for a splendid fortnight abroad—business-class flights, seafront hotels, guided tours through historic sites. She brought up the trip again, her eyes alight with excitement. But William, barely glancing up from his phone, laughed. “Italy? At your age? What’s there for you now? Prancing around ruins in an old swimsuit? You’re not a girl anymore, Ellie.” His words cut like a whip. She choked on the pain. After decades of waiting, hoping, believing they shared the dream, she realised—William had never cared. To him, it was a silly fantasy, unworthy of time or money.
Something shattered inside her. Years of patience, compromise, and hope crumbled like a sandcastle beneath crashing waves. The next day, while William was at work, she made her choice. She booked the trip—two weeks in Italy, just for herself. No more waiting. No more begging for permission. She packed her suitcase, left a note—”Good luck with the fishing, William. You’ll be paying for it yourself”—and left for the airport.
When Eleanor stepped off the plane in Rome, it felt as if an unbearable weight had lifted. She inhaled the warm air, thick with the scent of eucalyptus, and for the first time in years, felt free. Wandering the Colosseum, standing on Positano’s cliffs, she understood—she’d put her life on hold for someone else’s priorities. And yes, she wore that swimsuit—proudly, ignoring the stares. This was her moment. Her life.
One evening in Positano, dining at a seaside restaurant, she met Alfred. They talked, laughed, shared stories. It struck her then how deeply she’d yearned for this—to feel seen, heard. To Alfred, she wasn’t “too old”—she was a woman alive with spirit, open to new horizons. They spent the rest of her trip together, exploring Sorrento’s alleyways, tasting local wine, making memories she’d treasure forever.
Returning home, she found William gone. A note read: “Staying with my brother.” But instead of grief or fear, relief washed over her. No more waiting for a man who’d never valued her dreams or happiness. Months later, she still exchanged letters with Alfred, her pulse quickening at thoughts of new adventures. For the first time in years, Eleanor wasn’t waiting for someone else to fulfil her wishes—she was living them.
Sitting on her balcony, watching the quiet river, she remembered telling William about her dream long ago. He’d smiled, hugged her, vowed: “We’ll go.” But promises dissolved beneath daily drudgery, his indifference. Each mention of Italy was brushed aside like a childish whim. She’d endured, hoped, convinced herself he’d change. But his final words—”You’re not a girl anymore”—were the last straw. They didn’t just wound her pride; they shattered her faith in them.
Going alone wasn’t easy. Eleanor lay awake all night, imagining William’s anger, his accusations of selfishness. But by morning, she knew—her life was hers, and no one would steal her dreams again. Booking the tickets, fear gave way to resolve. As the plane took off, she smiled—truly—for the first time in years. Not for anyone else. For herself.
In Italy, she rediscovered a woman she’d long forgotten. She danced to street music in Rome, sipped limoncello on a seaside terrace, laughed until she cried at Alfred’s jokes. He was older too, but his eyes held the same fire—a hunger for life no years could extinguish. “You’re remarkable,” he told her once. “How could you hide away so long?” The words melted decades of ice in her soul.
Now, on her balcony, Eleanor knew: she wasn’t the woman who waited for permission to live. She didn’t know what lay ahead—new travels, visits with Alfred, something else entirely. But for the first time, she was ready for whatever came. Her dream of Italy wasn’t just a holiday—it was her liberation, her victory over fear and indifference.
And what would you have done in her place?
