The Road We Never Took Together
Emily and William Carter had dreamed of one thing—a car. Not just a hunk of metal on wheels, but a ticket to the very freedom they’d imagined since their wedding day. Nearly thirty years of work, their cottage, odd jobs, countless small sacrifices—all for one dream: to buy a car and set off on a journey together. No schedules, no rush, just the two of them and the open road.
And they did it. A silver Hyundai Tucson appeared in their old garage beside their faithful Austin Mini, which had served them loyally for decades. William walked around the car like a child with a new toy, running his hand gently over the bonnet, peering inside. Emily could already picture them speeding across bridges they’d never crossed, sleeping in campsites, drinking coffee at service stations, watching sunsets in unfamiliar towns.
The plan had been ready for ages. Every detail was mapped out—the route, overnight stops, places to eat, lists of essentials. William was in charge of driving and all things technical. He’d studied the map, noted the coordinates of campsites and petrol stations, calculated distances, printed a schedule of stops. Emily handled the atmosphere, the food, the memories. Her notebook listed every restaurant with local cuisine, every landmark, every scenic spot for photos. They told no one—this was their story alone, private and sacred.
Summer was fading. There were just a few chores left at the cottage. It was September, and the cool breeze whispered of autumn’s approach. They were heading back to town—just twelve miles to their flat. The sun dipped toward the horizon as Emily gazed out the window, while William quietly hummed to himself. Everything felt perfect.
Until, in an instant, it wasn’t.
He suddenly slammed on the brakes, gripping the wheel, his body jerking forward—then going still. The car stopped in the middle of the road. Emily was thrown against her seatbelt, disoriented. Then came the screaming, the panic. William didn’t respond. He just slumped forward, his head hitting the wheel.
Emily called an ambulance, tried to rouse him. The paramedics arrived quickly, but… He wasn’t breathing.
A heart attack. Instant. The seatbelt still carried the scent of his cologne, but he was already gone.
The formalities began—police, their daughter and son-in-law, tears, questions. But Emily heard none of it. She still sat in the car, in the very spot where she’d been dreaming just moments before. She watched as they took him away. Not a single tear fell. She was hollow.
Nine days passed. Then forty. Then three months.
Their daughter visited, brought food, cleaned. Tried to talk to her. It was no use. Emily seemed to vanish inside herself, moving mechanically through the flat, sleeping, waking, cooking. Her soul was frozen.
Then one day, their daughter asked casually,
“Mum, that silver car—whose is it?”
“William’s…” Emily began, and suddenly, memory hit her like a wave. Images flashed before her: him picking the colour, grinning, jotting down petrol station coordinates… And then she cried. Really cried. Not quietly, not restrained—but violently, desperately, until their daughter was frightened. Emily sobbed all day and most of the night. When she woke, she understood: she had to live. For him.
In spring, she returned to the cottage. She opened William’s untouched backpack and found a blue folder. Their route. His handwriting. His notes: “Coffee stop here,” “You’ll want a photo here.”
She snapped the folder shut. Tears threatened; anger boiled. “What bloody dream?!” she wanted to scream. She nearly threw it away. But she couldn’t. Instead, she tucked it into her bag.
Now she took the train to the cottage. Their son-in-law had taken the car—promised to drive her, but life got in the way. She didn’t mind. It didn’t matter anymore.
But in the evenings, she opened the folder. At first—surreptitiously. Then regularly. She read, remembered. It was like he was there, whispering, “Let’s go, Em.”
One night, she made a decision. Back in town, she signed up for a course. Not just any course—advanced driving. The instructor, a bloke in his twenties, scoffed at first. But Emily was stubborn. She studied, practiced, gripped the wheel so tightly it was as if she were clinging to life itself.
She got her licence. A proper one. With distinction. Proudly.
Then she went to their daughter. Calm. Certain.
“Claire, love—bring the keys down. And the paperwork.”
She took them, walked to the car. Stroked it. Got in. Started the engine.
And then she drove away. Without a word. Three days later, she was abroad—in the country where their journey was meant to begin.
She kept going.
She’d talk to Claire later. She’d understand. This had been her and William’s dream. And now—it was Emily’s road. A road without him, but still, somehow, together.
