**A Meeting on the Bridge**
Fallen autumn leaves danced in the wind, swirling through the air before settling gently on the ground. Oliver walked home from his parents’ house—he’d left his car in their driveway after sharing a drink with his father, who had just returned from a spa retreat.
“Honestly, love, next time you should come with me,” his father said cheerfully. “It was lovely, but a bit dull alone.”
“Dad, I’m sure there were plenty of free women there to keep you company,” Oliver teased, winking at his mother to gauge her reaction.
“Oh, plenty—but all either ill or twice my age. Besides, who could replace your mother?” His father smiled warmly at his wife.
Oliver had stayed too long. His parents lived nearby, just a short walk from the flat he rented with his girlfriend, Sophie. They’d never warmed to her, though they’d been polite enough. His mother had confided in him early on:
“Oliver, she’s not the one. Trust me, I’ve got an eye for these things.”
“Mum, how can you say that? You’ve only met her once!”
“Fine, live your life. Just remember my words later. At least you’re not rushing to the registry office. Don’t worry—Sophie won’t notice how we feel.”
That morning, before heading to the office, Oliver had mentioned he’d visit his parents after work. “Why don’t you come along? It’s your day off—we could drop in together.”
“Can’t, Ol. Promised Emily I’d visit—she’s off sick, you know. And I’ve got a nail appointment booked ages ago,” Sophie replied.
He’d known she’d refuse, but asked anyway. “Alright, I’ll probably be late. Dad won’t let me leave without a toast—he’s just back from the spa.”
“Take your time. I’ll be with Emily for a bit,” she said.
“Call me when you’re heading home. Don’t wander alone in the dark.”
Evening had swallowed the city whole. The streetlamps fought a losing battle against the deepening gloom. Oliver didn’t call—she was likely home by now. He walked in good spirits, pleasantly tipsy from his father’s whisky and warmed by his mother’s chatter.
But when he opened the door, playful laughter spilled from the bedroom. Peering in, he saw his best friend pulling on his shirt while Sophie murmured, “Hurry up, James. Oliver could be back any minute—” Then she froze, spotting him in the doorway.
His legs carried him out before his mind caught up. *Sophie and James. I wouldn’t have dreamed this in my worst nightmare.*
Numb, he wandered aimlessly, the will to live draining away. He stopped on a bridge, cars flashing past, headlights blinding. Leaning over the railing, he stared into the black water below.
A hand touched his sleeve. An elderly man with spectacles and a neat beard stood beside him, voice creaky but kind. “Bit high up, isn’t it, lad? Normally I don’t meddle, but I’d hate to think you’ve got dark thoughts about that water.”
Oliver startled. “No—no, of course not. I’d never…”
“Good,” the man said. “Which way are you headed?”
“Nowhere, really.”
“Then walk me home. I live past the park—if you don’t mind.” Oliver agreed.
“I’m Albert Whitmore, by the way.”
“Oliver.”
The bridge wasn’t long, the river not wide. Albert spoke of retiring three years ago after teaching economics at university. “Boring at first, but then my granddaughter had little Henry. Keeps us busy now—just me, Alice, and the boy.”
His steady voice soothed Oliver. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” Albert said, not asking but stating. “You’re welcome at ours tonight. Big flat—plenty of room.”
“It’s late. I’d hate to disturb the boy.”
“Henry’s in bed by nine. Come on.”
Oliver followed, if only because he had nowhere else. Inside, Albert brewed tea with practised quiet, setting out biscuits with care. A small voice piped up: “Who’s that?”
A three-year-old with bright eyes stood before him. “This is Oliver,” Albert said. “Our guest.”
“I’m Henry,” the boy announced solemnly, offering a hand.
Oliver shook it gently. “Hello, Henry. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Nope.” Henry shook his head just as Alice entered—soft-cheeked, grey-eyed, and flustered.
“I didn’t know we had company!”
“Alice, my granddaughter,” Albert introduced.
They drank tea, talking late into the night. Henry clung to Oliver, dragging out toys until Alice finally shepherded him to bed.
“He took to you,” Albert remarked. “Doesn’t warm to just anyone.”
The next morning, Oliver left for work from Albert’s—their four-bedroom flat had space to spare. That evening, he collected his car from his parents’ and returned home. Sophie’s things were still there. He braced for theatrics.
She burst in soon after. “Oliver! Where were you? I was worried!”
“Really? Pack your things and go. Frankly, I hoped you’d be gone already.”
“Won’t you even hear me out? James started it—”
“Spare me the details. Just leave.” He turned to his phone, deaf to her protests.
No best friend. No girlfriend. A clean slate.
At work, he found himself smiling at the memory of Henry’s laughter. Maybe Alice’s rosy cheeks and kind eyes, too.
He stopped at a toy shop on his way back, bought a model train, and rang Albert’s bell. Alice answered as if she’d been waiting, colour rising in her face. Henry barrelled into Oliver, tugging him inside to play.
A year later, Oliver stood outside the hospital, holding newborn Lucy while Alice rested in the wheelchair. Albert and Henry beamed beside them.
One chance meeting on a bridge had changed everything.
