For as long as she could remember, Emily had dreamed of travelling to France. She pictured herself strolling along the cobbled streets of Paris, admiring the sunset over the cliffs of Étretat, where golden rays bathed the white chalk formations in warm light. This trip was her heart’s desire—a reward for years of hard work, a long-awaited escape from the monotony of her small-town life by the River Thames. But every time she mentioned it, her husband, William, found an excuse to postpone the dream.
“Next summer, Em, I promise we’ll go,” he’d say, year after year, his words as hollow as an echo. “We need to finish the house repairs, clear the mortgage, save up a bit more.” At first, Emily trusted him. She’d shared her dream of France since their early days of marriage, and William had assured her they’d go together. She began setting aside money, carefully saving every spare pound, clinging to the hope that one day they’d walk on French soil side by side. But years passed, and “next summer” became an endless refrain. Work consumed all their time, the boiler broke down, or savings never seemed enough. Emily convinced herself it was temporary—they would go eventually.
By her sixties, Emily had saved enough for a lavish two-week holiday: first-class flights, seaside hotels, guided tours of historic landmarks. When she brought up the trip again, her eyes sparkled with excitement. But William, barely looking up from his phone, laughed. “France? At your age? What’s there for you? Prancing around ruins in an old swimsuit? You’re not a girl anymore, Em.” His words stung like a slap. Emily gasped at the pain. After decades of waiting, hoping, believing they shared this dream, she finally understood—William had never cared about her desire. To him, it was just a silly fantasy, unworthy of time or money.
Something inside her shattered. Years of patience, compromise, and hope crumbled like a sandcastle beneath relentless waves. The next day, while William was at work, Emily made her decision. She booked the trip—two weeks in France, just for herself. No more waiting, no more begging for permission. She packed her suitcase, left a note—”Good luck with the football, William. You’ll be paying for your own pints now,”—and headed to the airport.
When Emily stepped off the plane in Paris, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She inhaled the warm air, scented with fresh baguettes and blooming roses, and for the first time in years, she was free. Wandering through the Louvre, standing atop the cliffs of Étretat, she realised how long she’d postponed living for someone else’s priorities. And yes, she wore that swimsuit—with pride, ignoring any glances. This was her moment, her life.
One evening in Étretat, dining at a seaside restaurant, Emily met Frederick. They talked, laughed, and shared stories. For the first time in decades, she felt truly seen. To Frederick, she wasn’t “too old”—she was a woman full of life, eager for new experiences. They spent the rest of the trip exploring small coastal towns, sipping wine, and making memories Emily would treasure forever.
When she returned home, she found William had moved out. His note read: “Gone to stay with my brother.” But instead of sorrow or loneliness, Emily felt relief. She no longer had to wait for someone who’d never valued her dreams or happiness. Months later, she still wrote to Frederick, her heart fluttering with anticipation for new adventures. For the first time in years, she wasn’t waiting for someone else to make her dreams come true—she was living them.
Sitting on her balcony overlooking the quiet river, Emily reflected on the day she’d first told William about her dream. He’d smiled, hugged her, and promised, “We’ll go someday.” But those promises dissolved in the grind of daily life, drowned by his indifference. Each time she mentioned France, he brushed her off as if her dream were mere whimsy. She’d endured, hoped, and 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 their union.
Choosing to travel alone hadn’t been easy. Emily lay awake all night, imagining William’s anger, his accusations of selfishness. But by morning, she knew—her life was hers, and she wouldn’t let anyone steal her dreams again. Booking the tickets, she felt fear turn to resolve. When the plane took off, she smiled—a real smile, just for herself.
In France, she rediscovered the woman she’d forgotten. She danced to street musicians in Montmartre, sipped wine on a terrace overlooking the sea, laughed until her sides ached at Frederick’s jokes. He was older too, but his eyes held the same fire—a hunger for life no years could dim. “You’re extraordinary,” he told her once. “How could anyone keep you hidden so long?” His words melted decades of ice in her soul.
Now, on her balcony, Emily knew she was no longer the woman who waited for permission to live. She didn’t know what lay ahead—more travels, time with Frederick, or something entirely new. But for the first time, she was ready for whatever came. Her dream of France wasn’t just a holiday—it was her liberation, her victory over fear and apathy.
And what would you have done in her place?
