**The Wheelie Suitcase**
“Mum, I’m a grown-up now. Can’t I do what I want, just once?” huffed Eleanor.
They’d been arguing for days after Eleanor announced she wanted to spend a week in Edinburgh with her boyfriend.
“What about uni? Exams are coming up.”
“I’ll catch up—I always do. Please, Mum,” she whined.
“You’ve only just met him. What then?” Ludmila was running out of arguments to stop her.
“If you don’t let me, I’ll run away and never come back,” Eleanor snapped, flopping onto the sofa, hugging a cushion, and turning toward the window.
“What if she really does leave?” The anxious thought slithered into Ludmila’s heart, swelling into panic. Eleanor was her whole world, her only family. Losing her wasn’t an option.
“You were always so sensible, and now you’re alone. Want me to end up the same?” Eleanor’s voice trembled.
“Darling, there’s time—don’t rush…” Ludmila’s words fell on deaf ears. Her daughter was in love.
Eleanor buried her face in the cushion and sobbed.
“Am I really her enemy? Times change. Everything moves faster now. Maybe if I’d been braver, figured it out sooner, seen my ex’s flaws, my life would’ve been different.” Ludmila sighed.
“Fine. Go. But call every day. I can’t give much—saving for the house,” she conceded, exhausted.
Eleanor tossed the cushion aside, threw her arms around her mother.
“Thank you! I don’t need money—Ethan’s got it. I’ll call a million times, promise. Don’t worry!”
“Easy for you to say,” Ludmila thought but kept quiet. No point—she wouldn’t understand.
Eleanor dashed to her room and returned with a suitcase.
“You packed already? Were you really going to run off?” The thought stabbed at her.
“You’d have let me. I know you. I’ll call Ethan.” She grabbed her phone but hesitated. “You should go somewhere too—visit Aunt Irene? What’ll you do alone? It’s your holiday.”
“I’ll manage. Be careful—you know what I mean,” Ludmila muttered, her mood dark as a storm cloud.
“Mum, I’m not a kid.” Eleanor dialed, and Ludmila’s heart lurched. The conversation confirmed her fears—her daughter was leaving.
“Taxi’s here. I’ll call when we’re on the train.” A quick peck on the cheek, and she flitted out, oblivious to Ludmila’s tears.
“That’s it—grown up, doesn’t need me.” Ludmila rushed to the kitchen window. Below, a black cab idled while a young man paced. “Seems decent. Maybe it’ll be fine. Can’t shield her forever.”
She watched the cab disappear, then sank onto the sofa, tears brimming. “Alone. Quiet. Empty. I’ll go mad. But it happens—children grow up.”
Hours passed in a daze. “Maybe I’ll go away too. The coast? Not summer, but warmer.” She fired up Eleanor’s laptop, hunting for flights.
A cheap ticket to Brighton for tomorrow. No hesitation—booked a five-day break. Sick of scrimping. Waiting for phone calls would make the week drag.
Packing distracted her. When Eleanor rang that evening, breathless with excitement at the station, Ludmila barely registered the words before the call ended.
Sleep evaded her. “I’ll nap on the plane.” At dawn, she hailed a cab to Heathrow.
Despite the hour, the terminal buzzed like a kicked beehive. Goodbyes, frantic dashes, phone calls. Passing a couple entwined mid-hall, Ludmila averted her eyes. The girl, tear-streaked, whispered, “Promise you’ll come back? I love you…”
Too intimate. Too raw.
Boarding pass in hand, Ludmila waited, remembering her own reckless youth. The whirlwind romance that left her a single mother. Brief flings, but never remarrying—too afraid for Eleanor. Now, too late for change.
A man’s wheelie suitcase clipped her ankle.
“Sorry,” he muttered, settling nearby with a magazine.
“Probably meeting a mistress,” she thought bitterly.
Boarding called. He handed his ticket first. No mistress appeared. Ludmila tripped over his suitcase again. Fate, it seemed, seated them across the aisle. She ignored him, then slept.
Disembarking, they dressed in awkward tandem. He irked her.
At a cheap hotel, she dumped her bag and hit the promenade. The sun warmed her coat-heavy shoulders. The sea, the air—bliss. Eleanor texted: *Arrived safe. All good.* Appetite returned; she hadn’t eaten properly in days.
“Mind if I join you?”
The plane man. Sat before she answered. “Keep bumping into you. Must be fate. I’m Julian.”
“Ludmila,” she said, ignoring his outstretched hand.
“Lovely name. Can I call you Millie? Suits you.”
She shrugged. Handsome, slightly older, disarmingly genuine.
“Let’s skip formalities. Here to relax?” he asked.
“You? Work?”
“Remote. I’m a writer—freelance, mostly. Fancied a seaside stint.”
*Sure, a writer. Smooth talk for lonely women. Probably an accountant fleeing his wife.*
Her skepticism must’ve shown.
“I do write. One published novel, stories online. Copywriting pays the bills…”
“Uh-huh.”
“People read it. Pays well—hence Brighton.”
They walked the pier. He spoke of his work; she found herself liking him. At her hotel, he didn’t push, just waved goodbye.
Next morning, he waited in the lobby. More walks, dinner, wine. Laughter came easily—uncharacteristic, liberating.
She woke disoriented. Shower running. *Oh God. Lectured Eleanor, then this.* At forty-one, hardly old, but still—
“Morning,” Julian emerged, smiling. “Coffee, then I’ll walk you back. Meet tonight?”
She couldn’t recall feeling this light. Even Eleanor slipped her mind—until guilt flooded her. Julian kissed her, misreading her blush.
Five days vanished. At the airport, he begged, “Stay?”
“Eleanor’s back tomorrow. Work…”
“Call in sick. Invent something.”
“Come with me? You work remotely.”
She didn’t want to leave. Those days were magic. Fighting tears, she bit back questions about a wife. No need to spoil it.
The weeping girl at Heathrow echoed in her mind. *”Promise you’ll come back…”*
Now *she* was that girl. She marched to check-in, didn’t look back.
On the plane, she wept. Heartache ached like a fresh wound.
Home. Eleanor’s shoes in the hall.
“You’re early! What’s wrong?”
“Mum… you were right. I didn’t know him.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing. We’re just… wrong.” Eleanor sniffled.
“Darling, it’ll pass. Better now than later.”
Over tea, grey November sleet tapped the window.
“You look radiant. Wish I’d gone with you.”
“New Year’s at Aunt Irene’s?”
“Money?”
“Sod the renovations. They’ll wait.”
“Really? We’ll book now!” Eleanor darted to the laptop.
Ludmila barely recognised herself. Cautious homebody turned impulsive. Youth wasn’t the only reckless phase, apparently.
Life went on. Nights, she cried into the pillow. Memories dulled. *”At least you’ll have something to reminisce about,”* she imagined a friend quipping.
A week later, her phone rang. Unknown number.
“Millie?”
Her knees buckled. She’d deleted his number mid-flight.
“Sorry I didn’t call. Tried to forget—couldn’t. I need to see you.” Silence. “You there? Give me your address.”
“Your wife—kids?”
“What wife? Divorced three years ago. She hated me working remotely. I miss you. Let’s try… together.”
“Where are you?”
“Stansted.”
She gave her address, then flurried about—fridge, makeup, pacing by the door.
*”God, I’m giddy as a schoolgirl. How will it be? However brief, it’ll be mine…”*
Fate? Maybe. If so, it’d rolled into her life on wheelie-suitcase wheels. These things happen.
