One-Way Ticket
Mum of little Zoe worked as a maid in a hotel and often took her daughter along. Zoe loved the grand lobby with its multiple clocks on the wall, each showing a different time. She adored the sliding glass doors that opened on their own, the plush carpets muffling footsteps, the crisp scent of the hotel, and the towering mirrors.
But most of all, Zoe admired the elegant, warm, and friendly women behind the reception desk. She dreamed of becoming just like them one day.
“You must do well in school, be polite and well-mannered. A receptionist is the face of the hotel,” Mum would explain.
“But I have a nice face. You said I’m pretty,” Zoe would retort.
“Looks aren’t everything. You’ll need to speak foreign languages and get proper training. Finish school first, then we’ll see,” Mum would smile.
By secondary school, Zoe was helping Mum clean the hotel. She’d examine her slender figure in the mirrors, frustrated that her chest was too small and she could stand to grow a few inches. Still, heels could fix the height issue. And her chestnut hair, thick with loose curls at the ends? Perfect. She had everything it took to work reception.
When no one was looking, Zoe would sit with the receptionists, studying their every move. Under their guidance, she even managed a few tasks herself.
One day, one receptionist called in sick, and the other was away for her mother’s funeral. The manager, Mrs. Hopkins, had to cover the desk, but she was swamped. Zoe volunteered to help.
“I’ve watched them a thousand times. I can handle it.” She didn’t mention she’d worked alone before—no need to get the others in trouble.
She handled it flawlessly. Everyone was impressed, especially Zoe, who felt grown-up and important.
“Well done. If you choose hotel management, I’ll write you a reference,” Mrs. Hopkins promised.
After school, Zoe enrolled in university part-time, eager to apply her studies immediately. Luck struck when one receptionist went on maternity leave—Zoe stepped into her role.
Every spare moment was spent with textbooks, mastering English and French.
Mum was so proud. She’d spent her life cleaning rooms, yet here was Zoe, straight into reception—with a degree on the way, no less.
Young men flirted, showering her with chocolates, perfume, and flowers.
“Be careful with travelers. They’re all ‘single’ on business trips—then they go home to wives and kids,” Mum and Mrs. Hopkins warned.
Zoe understood. A maid had just been fired after a guest accused her of theft—only for the money to turn up later, misplaced. The damage was done.
It was at the hotel Zoe met Oliver. He was on business from a nearby town, pretending to read newspapers in the lobby while watching her. After her shift, he asked her to the cinema. He was easy to talk to, and though he was six years older, Zoe loved the attention.
When his trip ended, Oliver left—but returned the next weekend, booking a room just to see her. She spent each week counting down to his visits. Six months later, he transferred to the city, moving into a company flat.
They were so happy then.
Ignoring Mum’s warnings, Zoe often stayed over. Oliver woke her with soft kisses; she’d smile sleepily and curl into him.
“Let’s get married. I never want to be apart,” he’d whisper.
“We still have to work,” she’d laugh.
“Yes, but after, we’ll be together. Have children…”
Zoe tensed. She loved her job. Kids meant staying home—and someone else taking her place.
“I’m only twenty-four, just finished uni. I need experience. Don’t rush me.”
One day at work, Zoe felt ill. Thinking it was food poisoning, she asked Mrs. Hopkins to leave early. Mrs. Hopkins saw the truth: “Take a pregnancy test.”
It was positive. Not wanting to lose her best receptionist, Mrs. Hopkins arranged a doctor’s visit, covering Zoe’s shift.
Zoe had an abortion. No one knew. She avoided Oliver that night, stayed home. Mum assumed they’d fought. Afterwards, Zoe was more cautious.
Two years later, Mrs. Hopkins fell seriously ill. Before surgery, she named Zoe temporary manager—snubbing more experienced candidates.
“Wow,” Oliver whistled when Zoe told him. “You’re the boss now. And I’m just an engineer.”
“I always get what I want,” Zoe beamed—missing the sadness in his eyes.
Now she worked late constantly, greeting VIPs, inspecting rooms, dodging jealous colleagues. She slept at the hotel or Mum’s. Oliver called, jealous.
“You’re distracting me. I’ll call when I’m free,” she’d snap—then forget.
Evenings brought arguments. She’d storm out to Mum’s. Slowly, she drifted from Oliver, blaming work. He stopped calling first; she was always “too busy.”
The hotel consumed her. She demanded the same dedication from staff. Always in heels and sharp suits, poised for anything. Where was the smiling girl she’d been?
With Oliver, sex became rushed. She’d turn away, asleep before he touched her. When he kissed her neck, she’d shrug him off—”I’m exhausted.”
Mornings, she’d shower, dress, flee.
“At least have coffee,” he’d plead.
“I’ll get it at the hotel. We have a new machine.”
He’d sigh, watching her go.
Then Mum fell ill. Zoe barely left her side. Recovered, Mum urged her to see Oliver. Zoe called—”I miss you. I’ll come tonight.”
“I leave on business in an hour,” he said.
“Where? For how long?”
“Head office. I’ll call when I land.”
A month passed. No call, just texts—”Delayed.” Zoe checked her phone obsessively, silent at work.
When he returned, they couldn’t reconnect. Had they grown apart? Or were the wounds too deep?
Time passed. Mrs. Hopkins never returned; Zoe took her role permanently. Work eclipsed Oliver. One day, Mrs. Hopkins called—”Hire my friend’s daughter.”
The girl was bright, young, ambitious—just like Zoe once was. Watching her, Zoe realized she was over thirty. At home, she scrutinized her reflection. Fine lines framed tired eyes. Makeup could hide those. She plucked a few silver hairs ruthlessly.
Mum worsened. Zoe used her connections for the best London hospital—but six months later, Mum was gone.
Now Zoe rarely visited the empty house. She slept at the hotel. Any flings were with guests—discreet, avoiding gossip.
None sparked what she’d felt for Oliver. As years passed, she missed him more.
Once, she called. No answer. She tried again and again. After work, she drove to his place. A winter storm raged—wet snow, biting wind. She buzzed his flat. No reply.
The wind mocked her, flinging snow in her face, yanking her coat open. She buried her nose in her scarf, retreated to the car. Maybe he’d moved?
Deciding whether to ask neighbors, she saw him—with a young woman. They walked, laughing through the storm. As they passed, Zoe noticed the woman’s coat straining over a rounded belly.
Her whole body shook, ice flooding her veins. She’d waited too long.
Driving home, she sobbed, unable to recall why they’d drifted apart. A bottle of expensive wine—a guest’s gift—let her drink herself to sleep, still dressed.
Morning brought a pounding headache—and worse, a hollow ache inside. The mirror showed a stranger: dull eyes, gray skin. She showered, slapped on bright makeup, and left for work.
Waiting for the lift, she overheard two receptionists—Mrs. Hopkins’s protégée was engaged.
“Aren’t you afraid maternity leave will cost you your job?”
“In five months, I’ll have my son. Nothing else will matter.”
Unlike Zoe, this girl wasn’t clinging to her job. She’d marry, have a child with the man she loved…
In her office, Zoe locked the door and collapsed into her chair. She stretched her legs, uncaring how she looked. Here, no one saw her pain. She was tired of being perfect.
She sat for hours, reflecting. She had the career she’d wanted—but lost happiness. What did she have? A flat, nice furniture, a luxury car, fur coats… For whom? Who’d care for her when she was old?
She cried until a knock came—someone needed her. Wiping her face, she fixed her makeup and stepped out, composed. No one saw her need for comfort.
After work, she visited Mrs. Hopkins. Frail, gray, swimming in her clothes, the woman wept.
“My husband left. Couldn’t stand me. I had no children—I aborted young, never conceived again. Forgive me for advising the same. I thought of the hotel, not you.”
The confession gave no relief. At home, sitting in the dark, Zoe realized lifeShe picked up her phone, booked a one-way ticket to the Scottish Highlands, and whispered to herself, “This time, I choose me.”
