The message that turned everything upside down…
Emily had left for a business trip to Manchester, leaving her fiancé Oliver behind in her hometown of Bristol. Finishing early, she decided to return without warning him, eager to surprise him. Oliver had never given her reason to doubt him, but as the train carried her home, intrusive thoughts flickered—what if she found him with someone else? She shook them away, yet her pulse quickened. Keeping her return a secret, she imagined his startled smile. But the surprise would have to wait. The moment she turned on her phone at the station, a message lit up the screen, freezing the blood in her veins.
Emily pressed her forehead against the taxi’s cold window, willing the silly thoughts away. Why was she imagining scenes from cheap telly dramas? Her life with Oliver was steady, almost dull—maybe that’s why she invented drama. The cab smelled of old aftershave, like her father’s. The driver, a man in his sixties with silver hair and a wrinkled neck, yawned and rubbed his ear—just like her dad when tired. His driving was jerky, and Emily clutched the door handle.
“Miss, what’s your name?” the driver asked. “Emily,” she replied, surprised. “I’m Victor. Em, when’s your train? Mind if we stop for petrol?” The train wasn’t for hours, so she nodded. “Plenty of time. I always arrive early.” Victor chuckled. “Women, always the same! My missus—five hours early, just in case traffic!” Emily shrugged; she did hate being late. “Actually, it’s Emily Victoria,” she added, changing the subject. “No kidding? My daughter’s Emily too. And my mum,” Victor said, brightening.
He launched into his life story, and Emily listened, stunned. Victor grew up in a big family, worked since fourteen, never got an education, struggled with debts, and barely scraped by. His sons from his first marriage wouldn’t speak to him, furious he’d left their mum. His only joy was his daughter—he paid for her schooling, praying she’d escape poverty. Emily wondered: what if this man had been her father? The daughter of a wealthy businessman, she’d never have met Oliver—he’d asked about her family and schooling the day they met.
“So, liked our city?” Victor asked as they neared the station. “Lovely,” Emily smiled. “Where you from?” “Bristol.” “Blimey, that’s far! Been once, for my granddad’s funeral. Work, was it?” “Yes, work.” “Come back soon! Here’s my card—I’m a proper cabbie, age ain’t nothing!” He handed her the card, and Emily studied him—his mannerisms, his voice. Like a doppelgänger of her father existed somewhere.
On the train, she spun stories like she had since childhood. She’d dreamed of writing, but her father insisted she study economics to take over his firm. Did she regret it? Not really. Her life was mapped out, and that soothed her. She hadn’t told Oliver she was returning early, savoring the thought of his shock. But everything changed when her phone buzzed with a message from her mother: “Dad’s in hospital. Heart attack.”
Emily had never seen her father weak. He was solid, unbreakable. Now he lay pale, wires on his chest. Her mother stepped out to speak with the doctor, leaving them alone. “How are you?” she asked, fighting tears. “Alright, love,” he murmured. To stop herself crying, she babbled about her trip: “Lovely city, and the cabbie—imagine, he’s your namesake, Victor—” Her father cut in: “I was born there.”
Emily froze. He’d never spoken of his childhood. “And my name’s not Victor,” he added, the words hanging like the start of one of her made-up tales. He went on: “I’ve kept quiet my whole life. Only your mum knows. Even the folks who raised me—no clue. I was three when it started. Born in Manchester, but my real name’s Arthur. Victor was my older brother—he raised me. Big family, dad drank, mum… I don’t remember. Just bread with butter and sugar.”
He told her how his mother once left him in a damp, crumbling house. His brother begged her not to, but she walked out. Little Arthur, terrified, ran off, lost in a crowd of kids, hopped on a bus, and ended up in a village. Found, they asked his name. Why he said Victor, he didn’t know. No one looked for him, or they never reported him missing. A woman there took him in, feeding him pies. She became his mother. “I remember nothing, love,” he finished. “Just my brother. Wish I knew what became of him.”
Emily couldn’t believe it. What if cabbie Victor was that brother? She recalled his face, his tales of a big family. “You never looked for them?” she asked. “Why? I don’t remember. Just the name Emily sticks—maybe a sister, maybe my mum. But that’s all. I want my grandkids to remember me. But there aren’t any. And I want to see you wed. I know weddings aren’t fashion anymore, but marry Oliver, eh? For an old man’s sake.”
Emily sighed. She wasn’t against marriage, but Oliver never asked. “Get well,” she said. “You’ll have your wedding.” At home, Oliver was gaming on his laptop. “Surprise! Should’ve told me, I’d have met you!” he grinned. Exhausted, Emily burst into tears. Oliver held her as she spilled everything—except her father’s secret. Then she blurted: “Let’s get married?”
Oliver pulled back, frowning. “Em, we’re good as we are. Why? Is this your dad’s idea? Think it over.” “So you don’t want to?” Her voice wavered. She’d always suspected he wasn’t ready, but hearing it hurt. “We’ve talked,” he said softly. “Want a kid? We’ll have one. No need for papers. We don’t fight.” Emily went quiet, resentment simmering.
Once her father recovered, she left for Manchester again without telling Oliver. A note: “Need to think about us.” But her real goal was finding the cabbie. She’d lost his card, tearing her bag apart. At the hotel where she’d booked the taxi, receptionist Helen was on holiday. Emily begged the others for her number, but they refused. Tears came unbidden. “Helen’s back in two weeks,” they said. In her room, she sobbed, feeling adrift. Why was she here? Oliver had probably left, and her father’s brother was lost.
Oliver texted: “What’s this mean?” “Take it how you like,” she replied. “Where are you?” “None of your business. You’re not my husband.” He went quiet. A knock came. A young receptionist whispered: “Here’s Helen’s address. Tell no one!” Hope flaring, Emily set off next morning, cancelling three cabs, praying Victor would show. But another driver came.
In a shabby neighbourhood, a bloke in a crumpled vest answered the door. “Looking for Helen,” Emily said. He squinted. “Sent by Alex?” “What Alex?” Her confusion eased him. Introducing himself as Liam, he offered coffee. Helen had dated rich Alex, who controlled her, then fell for poor Ian. Alex caused a scene, so Helen and Ian fled to his gran’s, lying about holiday. “Stay clear of Alex,” Liam warned.
A girl barged in, cutting him off. “Megan, it’s Helen’s mate!” Liam yelled, holding her back. Emily slipped into the hall and ran, craving home. The trip had failed. No Victor, a rift with Oliver, and the life she’d wanted to spice up was chaos.
At home, Oliver waited by the door. “Why no warning?” He looked weary, and Emily wondered—had her fantasy come true? Was he with someone? Tears threatened. “My flat, why warn you?” she snapped. “Why aren’t you at work?” “It’s Sunday,” he said calmly. “Hungry? Let’s order in.” Emily realised he hadn’t left. “Pizza,” she muttered, shedding her coat.
“Where’d you go?” Oliver asked. “Not telling.” “Fine. Check that box—cleaned up, didn’t toss your stuff.” He handed her a box, and Emily, half-heartedly digging, froze. A business card: “Victor Thompson.” The cabbie’s name she’d hunted! “Oli, I searched everywhere for this!” she exclaimed. He rolled his eyes. “Keep looking. Might find something else.” Emily glanced inside and stiffened. A blue velvet box—definitely not hers.
Her heart thundered. She knew what it meant but couldn’t touch it. “Let me,” Oliver said, opening it. A ring glinted inside. “Changed your mind?” he teased. Emily shook her head, happy tears flowing. Her life might’ve been predictable, but now there wasShe tucked Victor’s card safely into her pocket, wondering if some mysteries were meant to stay unsolved.
