Dream on Wheels: A Journey Through Pain and Freedom
Emily and James, living in a quiet village on the outskirts of Birmingham, had finally achieved their long-held dream. For years, they had scrimped and saved, denying themselves small pleasures, selling homegrown vegetables from their allotment, and taking on odd jobs. They were bound by one shared goal: to buy a reliable car and embark on the adventure they had dreamed of since their wedding day.
And now, it had happened! In the garage next to their battered old Ford stood a gleaming black SUV. James, beaming with pride, circled it, gently running his fingers over the polished bodywork as if afraid to scare away the miracle. Emily sat in the passenger seat, eyes closed, imagining the distant horizons they had longed to explore together.
Their route had been planned down to the last detail years ago. James had calculated fuel costs, marked petrol stations and campsites, and outlined each day of the journey with scheduled rest stops. He took charge of the technical side—the driving, car maintenance, and route selection. Emily, meanwhile, had curated a list of cafés and pubs where they would sample local dishes. She had researched every landmark along the way—where to take photos, what to see, which museums to visit. Their preparation had been flawless, as if they were planning the expedition of a lifetime.
They had told neither their daughter nor their son-in-law about their dream. This was their private, cherished desire, their shared secret. Why involve the children?
Summer was fading. All that remained was to finish the final chores at the allotment, and then they could set off. That day, they closed up for the season—turned off the water, stored the tools, packed jars of preserves, apples, and carrots into the boot of the old Ford. The twenty miles back to town passed in a blur. James hummed his favourite tune under his breath, while Emily, smiling, gazed out the window, already savouring their great adventure.
Then, abruptly, the humming stopped. James clutched at the steering wheel, his face drained of colour, before slamming on the brakes. The car skidded, the seatbelt digging into Emily’s chest. James slumped forward over the wheel. She froze, unable to move, then screamed and threw herself toward him. He wasn’t breathing. Her fingers trembled, her heart pounded, her mind refusing to grasp what had just happened.
Emily dialled 999, grabbed a bottle of water, dampened a cloth, trying to revive him. But there was no response. The paramedics, arriving minutes later, confirmed the worst—James was gone. They spoke of heart failure, but their words dissolved into the ringing silence. The police came, then their daughter and son-in-law. Questions were asked, condolences given. Their daughter sobbed, while Emily sat motionless in the passenger seat, watching as they carried away the body of her Jamie.
The following days passed in a haze. Emily moved mechanically—going where she was led, doing as she was told, nodding when required. She didn’t cry—the tears had dried up inside. Her soul seemed to have died with her husband, leaving only an empty shell trapped within the four walls of their home.
Nine days passed, then forty, then three months. Their daughter Hannah visited, bringing groceries, trying to coax her mother into conversation. But Emily remained silent, distant, like a ghost.
One day, Hannah suddenly asked, “Mum, whose car is in our garage?”
“James bought…” Emily began, but her voice broke.
At that moment, memories flooded back—buying the car, James’s excitement, his booming laughter, their plans. Her breath hitched, tears burning her eyes. She wept, for the first time in months, barely hearing Hannah’s questions: “Dad bought it? When? Why didn’t you say? How did you afford it?” The questions kept coming, but Emily couldn’t answer—she sobbed uncontrollably, realising she would never see his smile again, hear his voice, or feel the warmth of his hands.
She cried all day and most of the night. By dawn, she slept, and when she woke, she understood—she had to keep living. Without him. It would be hard, unbearable even, but she had to.
With spring’s arrival, Emily prepared to visit the allotment. Maybe out of habit, maybe to keep herself busy, to stop from drowning in emptiness. In James’s rucksack—untouched since that day—she found a familiar folder. Worn at the edges, holding their dream inside.
She opened it. Her heart pounded as if trying to escape her chest, then clenched into a tight knot. “What dream now? There is no dream!” she thought bitterly, slamming it shut. She meant to put it away, but instead stuffed it into her bag.
She took the train to the allotment. Her son-in-law had offered to drive her in the SUV, but work had kept him busy, and Emily didn’t mind. She understood—young people had their own lives. And the car? Let them have it. She didn’t need it anymore.
That evening, sitting in the quiet of the allotment shed, she remembered the folder. She took it out, opened it—then immediately snapped it closed. The pain was too sharp. The next day, she couldn’t resist flipping through it. Then reading. And so it went, each evening. She pored over James’s notes, his meticulous records of routes, petrol stations, campsites. With each passing day, the pain dulled, replaced by a small spark in her heart. It felt like he was beside her, and they were planning their adventure together again.
By summer’s end, Emily had come back to life. She knew what to do. Returning to town, she signed up for driving lessons—not the ordinary kind, but advanced ones. Travelling alone was serious business. The young instructor eyed her sceptically, but she, stubborn as a schoolgirl, gripped the wheel, hands shaking with effort, until she mastered it.
And she did it. The licence was in her pocket.
One evening, she visited Hannah’s house. The SUV was parked outside. She approached, ran a hand over the bodywork, noting the faint scratches as if pitying the car. She called her daughter, asked her to bring the keys and paperwork, checked the documents, took the keys, and slid into the driver’s seat.
Gently touching the wheel, she started the engine, rested her hand on the gearstick. Under her daughter’s astonished gaze, she pulled away from the kerb. Three days later, she crossed the border, heading for the country that had been first on her and James’s route.
She would talk to Hannah later. Her daughter would understand.
