I MISSED MY DESTINY
They say looking for love at work is frivolous. I wasn’t searching, though. It found me. Not in the form of a charming colleague with a coffee cup and tie, but as a silent man in a black “Mazda,” waiting in line for petrol. I was working at the petrol station.
At first, he just watched me quietly. Then he began to smile. Eventually, it seemed he memorized my shifts and only showed up when I was working. My name was Kate. I was 33. I was quite the character: a platinum blonde, bold, straightforward, with an attitude sharpened by working in a predominantly male environment. And him… he was different. At 42, his eyes were the color of a February sky, his shoulders seemed like they could knock down walls. And his smile… warm, gentle, slightly boyish.
His name was Chris. He lived in the house next to the petrol station with his son and a dog named Rocky. The son was from a previous marriage. His wife had left them both. Chris didn’t work. He was a landlord, living off the income from four flats inherited from his grandmother. He just lived, traveled, and enjoyed life.
One day, he pulled up to the pump and said, “Come on, I’ll show you a town you’ll fall in love with.” Then there was another town. And another. We drank beer in half-empty cafes, stayed in seaside hotels out of season, spent nights with the sound of waves, wandered through markets in places like Brighton and York, and listened to jazz in Leeds.
I fell in love. I simply melted into him. I, who always valued my freedom and didn’t believe in conventions, was living with him within three months. We didn’t make it official; we just were together.
At first, I talked about having a child. I dreamed of it. I imagined us walking together: him, me, and the baby. But Chris was adamant. He said he’d already “done his time” as a father and wouldn’t sign up for it again. Most importantly, he said, kids get in the way of freedom.
“You won’t be able to just fly off to Edinburgh for the weekend with a baby bump, Kate, or later with a stroller down the cobbled streets. It won’t be a life, but a prison.” He said it so calmly and with such certainty that I, almost hypnotized, began to fear the thought of a future child myself.
Years passed like this. I became the peroxide servant of his carefree life. I cooked, ironed, bought his favorite cheeses, laughed in the right places, while he… He watched more football, lazily skimmed the newspaper, and told me I was “the one.”
His son grew up. First, he looked down on me. Then he began to look at me with interest. And then he brought home a girl—just like I was six years ago. Young, vibrant, blonde. She stayed over, laughed at my jokes, called me “Katie.”
I looked at her and understood everything. I wanted to shout: “Run! Don’t miss out on your life like I did! Don’t lose yourself, don’t give up 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 my friends, lost my parents. There’s just me, Chris, Rocky, and a love that’s rusting away, long turned into something more like a habit.
He still doesn’t work. Still collects rent from the flats, still drinks beer every night. And I still set down a plate of salad in front of him and wait. Wait for that feeling that not all is lost to return. But it’s just self-deception.
Sometimes, at night while he sleeps, I step out onto the balcony and look at the sky. And I think, if you want something badly enough, maybe you can change everything. But it’s too late. Far too late.
