**No One’s Fault, or Just the Way the Stars Aligned**
Oliver held the restaurant door open, letting his wife go first. The door swung shut behind them, muffling the thud of music and the drunken chatter. In the distance, the uneven glow of city lights flickered, and a winding trail of streetlamps stretched through the darkness.
“You look pale… Should we just get a cab?” asked Sophie.
“Don’t need one. It’s just stuffy in there. I’ll cool off, and we’ll be fine.” Oliver wrapped an arm around her.
“But you’ve been drinking,” Sophie pressed.
“Hardly anything, and that was hours ago. Besides, roads are quiet this late. Stop worrying,” he reassured her.
“Mum called. Alfie won’t sleep without us,” Sophie sighed. “I’m exhausted.”
“Let’s head home, then. Half an hour, and we’ll be there.” Oliver fished the keys from his jacket pocket, pressed the fob. Somewhere in the car park, their Ford beeped in response, headlights flashing twice.
Oliver pulled out of the countryside restaurant’s car park, steering confidently toward the city. Beside him, Sophie stretched her tired legs, resting her head against the seat—no need to fuss over her hair now.
“Decent wedding, eh? Ours was better, though,” Oliver said, glancing at the fading restaurant lights in the rearview mirror.
“Honestly, I barely remember ours,” Sophie murmured, eyes closed.
“Same here.”
“Nobody remembers their own wedding. Maybe that’s why it always seems better than everyone else’s.”
“True,” Oliver chuckled.
“Maybe Mum should stay over tonight. By the time we get back, then you drive her home…” Sophie yawned.
“Course she can stay. I’m barely keeping my eyes open too.”
“I told you we should’ve taken a cab. You never listen.” Her voice was thin with exhaustion.
“Too late now. Don’t fancy coming back for the car tomorrow.”
Sophie didn’t answer. Eyes shut, she imagined getting home—kicking off her tight shoes, slipping into soft slippers, a hot shower…
Had she looked over, she’d have seen Oliver’s knuckles white on the wheel, his forehead slick with sweat, his breathing uneven. But she didn’t.
Oliver hadn’t admitted it, but he already regretted driving. His chest burned, his heart pounding painfully with each breath. Maybe he should pull over. No—better to get home, lie down…
Trees blurred past, the city tauntingly distant, as if moving farther away. He pressed the accelerator—then pain tore through him. Darkness swallowed his vision. The crash shattered the outskirts of the sleeping town, but Oliver never heard it.
The lorry driver scrambled from his cab, rushing toward the crumpled Ford. The driver was dead—no question. The woman beside him? He yanked at the door—jammed. Reaching through the shattered window, he fumbled for a pulse. His hands shook too much to tell.
He called an ambulance and waited.
They ruled him blameless. The Ford’s driver had alcohol in his system, the autopsy confirming a heart attack before the collision sent him into oncoming traffic.
The lorry driver visited the hospital. The woman had survived two surgeries but needed another—an artificial hip. Without it, she’d never walk again. The procedure cost a fortune.
***
“James, finally. I found the perfect flat—just like we wanted. Fifth floor, lift, city centre, great layout. Needs work, but I haggled the price down. We’ll view it tomorrow. How much do we have saved? If you haven’t touched it, it should cover it.” Emily rattled on as James washed his hands in the bathroom.
She blocked his path, searching his face.
“Hold on, Em.” He nudged her aside.
“Hold on? This won’t last! I convinced the seller not to show anyone else. I couldn’t reach you—your phone was off.”
“I don’t answer when I’m driving.” He slumped at the kitchen table. “Just let me eat.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Emily grabbed a plate, lifted the pan lid—then froze.
“You changed your mind about the flat?” Her voice sharpened. “Or is there someone else? You quit your decent job to drive for pennies—”
“Don’t be daft. There’s no one. And no money either.”
“What?” The plate clattered from her hands. “Where is it? You bought a flat for some mistress?”
“Enough!” James snapped. “I gave it to that woman—to the hospital. For her operation.”
“The one whose husband died? But you weren’t even at fault! The court said—”
“I wasn’t. He wasn’t. Just wrong place, wrong time. He’s dead, she’s crippled, and there’s a kid…”
“So you pitied her. What about me? About us? We scrimped for years—lived in a shoebox—” She hurled the plate. It shattered. “You’re insane!” She stormed out.
James followed. She sat stiffly on the sofa, arms crossed, staring at the darkening window. He touched her shoulder—she jerked away.
“Should’ve talked to you first. But it’s my money. We’re healthy. She’s not. She’s got a child. I couldn’t live knowing—”
“Why you?” Her voice cracked.
“Because I decided.”
“We’ll never save that again.” She sniffled.
“Why do we need a big place? If we had kids…”
“Now it’s my fault we don’t?” She sobbed. “I wanted to adopt!”
“I’m nearly fifty, Em. Too old for nappies.”
She screamed, threw things, shoved a pillow at him. “Sleep on the sofa!”
He lay awake, replaying the crash. He’d been cleared, but guilt lingered. He’d left his job, started driving taxis—less pay, but peace.
At the hospital, the woman—Lydia—slept through his visits. Sedated, probably. The local surgeons had done their best, but she’d never walk without a new hip. London specialists would operate here—for a price.
So he paid. Every penny. Asked them not to tell her.
He knew where she lived but couldn’t bring himself to knock. What would he say? Would she blame him?
Two weeks passed. Emily cooked, cleaned, ice in her silence. Then one evening, he found a suitcase by the door. Expected, yet still a blow.
She left for an old friend—a widower. Called James a fool, a failure.
One Saturday, he drove to Lydia’s building. No plan. August sun glowed on rowan berries in the courtyard.
He hesitated, watching the windows. Then she appeared—leaning on a cane, struggling with a boy who stubbornly clutched a heavy bag.
“Need help?” James stepped forward.
“Who are you?” Wariness flashed in her eyes.
“James Wilson. The lorry driver.” He took the bag from the boy—Alfie.
Her lashes fluttered. She knew the name.
“I don’t want anything. Just trying to help. Second floor?”
She nodded, following as he carried the bag upstairs.
“The surgery didn’t take?”
“Helped, but I need another. Waiting for funding. Hospitals… I’m tired.”
“Your lad’s a tough one.” James ruffled Alfie’s hair. The boy scowled.
“I know it wasn’t your fault. I should’ve insisted on a cab. He looked ill, and I still let him drive. Fell asleep…”
“Nobody’s fault. Just how things happened.”
At her door, Alfie found a note—a handyman had come while they were out.
“Oh, I forgot! He might not come back now,” Lydia fretted.
James set the bag down. “I’ll go.”
“Wait!” She bit her lip. “My tap’s leaking. Could you…?”
He fixed it—temporarily. “Needs a new washer. I’ll replace it tomorrow.”
She hesitated.
“Or I’ll just—” He packed his tools.
“I’ve put the kettle on. Fancy tea? Or there’s soup…”
“Soup. My wife left. Can’t cook to save my life.”
“Because of the crash?”
“No. She’s with a friend now.”
He kept coming back—fixing shelves, blown bulbs. Alfie thawed when James taught him chess.
One night, Lydia said, “Stay. It’s late.”
Slowly, her heart unclenched.
Life’s a long, winding road. You never know the turns ahead. But facing them together? Easier.
