I MISSED MY DESTINY
They say searching for love at work isn’t serious. But I wasn’t looking. It found me. Not as a charming colleague with a coffee cup and tie, but as a silent man in a black Ford waiting in line for petrol. I worked at the station.
At first, he simply watched quietly. Then he started to smile. And soon it seemed he learned my schedule and came only when I was on duty. My name was Emma. I was 33. I was quite the character: a platinum blonde, cheeky, straightforward, with a personality sharpened in a male-dominated environment. And he… he was different. Forty-two, eyes like a February sky, shoulders that could seemingly knock down walls. And that smile… Warm, calm, with a touch of boyishness.
His name was James. He lived in a house near the station with his son and a dog called Rocky. The son was from a previous marriage. His wife had left them both. He didn’t work. He lived off the rent from four flats inherited from his grandmother and simply enjoyed life. He traveled, strolled, and relaxed.
One day, he pulled up to the pump and said, “Let’s go, I’ll show you a city you’ll fall in love with.” Then there was another city. And another. We sipped beer in half-empty pubs, visited seaside hotels off-season, slept to the sound of waves, wandered around markets in London and York, listened to jazz in Brighton.
I fell for him. I simply melted into him. Someone who always stayed independent and didn’t believe in labels, within three months I was living with him. We didn’t formalize anything, we just were.
At first, I talked about having a child. Dreamed. Imagined us as a trio: me, him, and a baby. But James was firm. He said he had already “served his term” in fatherhood and wouldn’t sign on for a second round. Besides, children restrict freedom.
“You won’t be able to fly to Edinburgh for the weekend with a bump, Emma, and then with a pram on the cobblestones. It will be imprisonment, not living.” He said this so calmly, confidently, that I, as if hypnotized, began to fear the idea of a future child.
Years passed. I became the peroxide servant of his carefree life. I cooked, ironed, bought his favorite snacks, laughed at the right moments, while he… He watched more football, lazily browsed the newspaper and told me I was “the one.”
His son grew up. First, he despised me. Then he grew curious. Eventually, he brought home a girl—a carbon copy of me six years back. Young, vibrant, blonde. She stayed over, laughed at my jokes, and called me “Emmy.”
I looked at her and understood everything. I wanted to shout, “Run! Don’t miss out on your life like I have! Don’t dissolve, don’t lose your voice, don’t throw away your dreams. You can still change everything!”
And me? I no longer believe. I’m 39. I have no children. I quit my job, lost friends, and my parents are gone. It’s just me, James, Rocky, and a love that’s rusted into something resembling routine.
He still doesn’t work. Still collects rent, still drinks beer every night. I still place a salad before him and wait. Wait for that feeling that not everything’s lost. But that’s self-deception.
Sometimes at night, while he sleeps, I step onto the balcony and gaze at the sky. I feel if you really want something, you can change everything. But it’s too late. Far too late.
