And why did he look back? He could’ve just walked past…
When we make decisions, we convince ourselves we’re doing the right thing, we find justifications. At first, we’re haunted by doubts, afraid of the boomerang effect—some unseen retribution for our choices. But when nothing happens, we settle, grow certain we were right, and carry on, trying not to dwell on it.
Then one day, the boomerang returns. Or the guilt, long overdue.
They met in the early 2000s. Oliver was waiting at the bus stop when he saw her. Just a girl, like any other, but something in his chest clenched. “The bus will come, she’ll leave, and I’ll never see her again.” He glanced over his shoulder. A bus was idling at the traffic lights. His pulse quickened, urging him forward. So he approached her.
“Hi. Which bus are you waiting for?”
She studied him, trying to place him, while he stared into her eyes, already certain he’d never forget them—or sleep soundly again.
“I’m Oliver. You’re not waiting for the 204, are you?”
“No,” she finally smiled. “The 30.”
Oliver exhaled in relief. No bus in sight—that meant time.
“You live in Southside?” he asked.
“No, I’m visiting my grandmother.”
“In a hurry?” he asked, resigned.
“Not really. Why?”
His voice brightened. “Fancy walking to the next stop?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
His heart thrummed wildly as they walked together—first to the next stop, then beyond. They ended up in the neighbourhood where her grandmother lived, neither noticing the distance or the passing time.
When Emily stopped outside her grandmother’s house, they’d already shared so much, as if they’d known each other for years. Before parting, they exchanged numbers and addresses. Neither doubted they’d met their destiny.
A year later, they married. They lived with Emily’s grandmother at first, then, after graduating and finding work, took out a mortgage on a two-bedroom flat—room for the future.
When Emily told him she was pregnant, Oliver’s heart slammed against his ribs just as it had that first day, as if saying, “Well? Move, Dad!” And he grinned like a fool. He was going to be a father. Unbelievable. Terrifying. Wonderful.
Life shifted gears. Their days were filled with planning—names, cribs, prams. Oliver stopped mothers in the street, interrogating them about pushchairs. Friends with children handed down tiny clothes, offering unsolicited advice on teething and weaning.
They couldn’t wait to meet their firstborn. And then he arrived—a bright-eyed little boy. By the time Emily came home from the hospital, the nursery was ready: a cot with soft bumpers, stacks of tiny clothes, nappies, a sleek pram waiting by the door.
Oliver carried the bundle into the flat, his heart swelling. The place erupted with baby cries, fussing relatives, wonder.
Then, at the first check-up, Emily saw the paediatrician’s tense face.
“Is something wrong?”
The doctor ordered more tests. Then came the diagnosis. Emily sobbed while Oliver clenched his jaw, trying to steady her. They refused to believe it. They were young, healthy—how could this happen?
“Difficult labour. Birth trauma,” the doctor said wearily.
Days blurred into despair. Oliver’s mother suggested placing the boy in a care home—why burden themselves? They could have more children, healthy ones.
Oliver couldn’t meet Emily’s tearful gaze, but he said firmly, “We’re keeping Jamie.”
Jamie grew. He smiled, recognised them, seemed normal. They hoped the doctors were wrong. Until he should’ve been walking—but didn’t. His legs were too weak.
No doctor could promise he’d ever walk. “Be grateful his mind’s intact,” they said.
So began the battle—physio, exercises, therapy. Emily never returned to work. Oliver’s wages vanished into medical bills and mortgage payments. His parents helped where they could.
One weekend, Emily asked him to take Jamie to the park while she cleaned. He refused.
“Nat, let me clean. You take him. I can’t—other kids running around, parents staring. He’s too big for the pram now. I can’t bear their pity.”
That was the first crack. Others followed.
Later, Emily suggested selling the flat for a house.
“We’ll build ramps. He’ll have space. It’s better for everyone—especially Jamie.”
“Yeah,” Oliver murmured, avoiding her eyes. “But it won’t change much. I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
She let him go. Her eyes were wide with fear, but she didn’t cry. He tried not to think of her alone, juggling bills, decisions, grief.
***
Seventeen years later
After work, Oliver stopped at a department store, hunting for his father’s birthday gift. Ahead of him, a woman in a green trouser suit walked briskly. He couldn’t look away from her figure, the faint trace of her perfume. “What a woman,” he mused, humming under his breath.
She paused, rifling through her handbag. He circled her, then hesitated. He had to see her face.
She looked up. He’d have known her anywhere. His feet rooted to the floor; his heart hammered.
Lately, he’d thought of her often—wondered how she’d aged. He’d even walked past their old house, slowing, hoping for a glimpse.
Emily straightened. She recognised him too. Her lips twitched, but she didn’t smile.
“Hello, Emily,” he said, stepping closer.
She’d softened with age, but it suited her. Her hair curled just above her shoulders, her eyes the same—only wiser.
“Oliver,” she replied lightly.
There was no tremor in her voice, no spark of what once was. Just polite curiosity.
“Got time for a coffee?” he asked, nodding towards a café.
She agreed. As they sat, he couldn’t stop staring. “You look incredible.”
“The grey suits you,” she said. “How’s life? Married?”
“Divorced. Two daughters—they’re with their mum. They call when they need money. You?”
“Single. I’m just picking up trainers for Jamie.”
“Jamie… walks?”
“Yes. Not like most people, but he manages. Burns through shoes, though. He’s at uni now—works from home, coding. Runs a blog. Our main breadwinner, actually.”
Her eyes glowed with pride.
“I’m glad. Really.”
“It wasn’t easy. After you left, Mum retired to look after him. I worked. We sold our flats, bought a house. Dad built ramps. He died three years ago. Mum’s still with us.”
“You’re amazing. I’m sorry. I was a coward.”
“Don’t. You’d have left anyway. It was your choice. Your mother helped, didn’t she? Men leave healthy kids too.”
Her phone buzzed. “Jamie’s wondering where I am.” She stood. “Good seeing you.”
“Need a lift?”
“No.” She was already walking away.
Oliver watched her go, then suddenly bolted after her—just in time to see her car pull away.
At home, his Labrador greeted him, nuzzling his hand.
“Later, boy,” Oliver muttered, sinking onto the sofa.
He called his eldest.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“Just wanted to hear your voice. How’s your mum?”
“She’s fine. Got a new bloke. Jules is on a school trip.”
“Visit me sometime?”
“Too busy. I’ll call.” A kiss noise, then silence.
Oliver sighed. “They don’t need me. Nobody does. Except you.”
The dog whined, paws shifting.
“You know I’ve got a son? He won’t call. Won’t forgive me. And Emily—God, she’s beautiful. Think there’s still a chance?”
The Labrador only stared.
“Right. Walk time.”
That night, Oliver tossed and turned, haunted by his choices, by Emily. The dog watched from his bed, ears pricked at every sigh.
Regret gnawed at him. Without love, without Jamie and Emily, his life felt hollow. His daughters didn’t need him. Nobody did. Except the dog.
*And why did I look back? Should’ve walked past…*
For the first time, jealousy pricked his heart. *Look at her now.*
