The Road We Never Took Together
Emily and David Wilson had dreamt of one thing—a car. Not just a hunk of metal on wheels, but a ticket to the freedom they’d imagined since their wedding day. Nearly thirty years of work, their cottage garden, odd jobs, and countless small sacrifices—all for that one dream: buying a car and setting off on a journey together. No schedules, no fuss, just the two of them and the open road.
And they did it. A sleek silver Hyundai Tucson now sat in their old garage beside the faithful Ford Fiesta that had served them for decades. David walked around the new car like a child with a long-awaited present, running his hand over the bonnet, peering inside, while Emily pictured them racing across bridges they’d never crossed, camping under the stars, sipping coffee at motorway services, watching sunsets in towns they’d never seen.
Their plan was ready. Every detail had been thought through: the route, overnight stops, places to eat, lists of essentials. David would handle the driving and all the technical bits—he’d studied the map, noted down campsites and petrol stations, calculated distances, even printed out a schedule. Emily was in charge of the atmosphere, the food, the memories. Her notebook was full of cosy pubs with local dishes, every landmark, every perfect spot for photos. They told no one—this was their story, private and sacred.
Summer was fading. A few last chores at the cottage remained. It was September, and the cool breeze carried hints of autumn. They were heading back to town—twelve miles to their flat. The sun dipped low as Emily gazed out the window, David humming softly beside her. Everything felt perfect.
Until, in an instant, it ended.
He slammed on the brakes, gripping the wheel, his body jerking forward—then slumping. The car stopped dead in the middle of the road. Emily was thrown against her seatbelt, disoriented. Then came the scream, the panic. David didn’t respond. Just collapsed, his head dropping onto the wheel.
Emily called an ambulance, tried to rouse him. Paramedics arrived quickly, but… he wasn’t breathing.
His heart. Gone in a flash. The seatbelt still smelled of his aftershave, but he was no longer there.
Then came the formalities: police, their daughter Sarah and her husband, tears, questions. But Emily heard none of it. She still sat in the car, in the same 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.
Sarah visited, brought food, tidied up. Tried to draw her mother out. Useless. Emily had retreated inside herself, moving mechanically through the flat—sleeping, waking, making soup—but her soul was frozen.
Then one day, Sarah asked, as if offhand:
“Mum, that silver car—whose is it?”
“David’s…” Emily began, and then the memories hit her like a blow. Images flashed: him choosing the colour, grinning as he jotted down petrol stations, planning their stops… And then she wept. Properly, for the first time—not quietly, not restrained, but with a raw, wrenching grief that frightened Sarah. Emily cried all day, most of the night. Then slept. And when she woke, she knew: she had to live. For him.
Come spring, she returned to the cottage. Opened David’s untouched rucksack 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. Anger boiled up. “What bloody dream?!” she wanted to scream. She almost threw it away. But couldn’t. Instead, she tucked it into her bag.
She took the train to the cottage now. Sarah’s husband had taken the car—promised to drive her, but life got busy. Emily didn’t mind. She didn’t need it.
But at night, she opened the folder. At first, furtively. Then regularly. Reading, remembering. It was as if he were beside her, whispering: “Let’s go, Em.”
One evening, she made up her mind. Back in town, she signed up for a course—not just any course, but advanced driving lessons. The instructor, a bloke in his mid-twenties, scoffed at first. But Emily was stubborn. She learned, practised, gripped the wheel like it was her lifeline.
She got her licence. A proper one. With the endorsement. Proudly.
Then she went to Sarah. Calm. Certain.
“Love, come down, please. With the keys. And the paperwork.”
She took them, approached the car. Stroked it. Sat inside. Turned the ignition.
Then drove away. Without a word. Three days later, she was abroad—in the country where their journey was supposed to begin.
And she kept going.
She’d talk to Sarah later. She’d understand. This was her and David’s dream. Now it was Emily’s road. A road without him. But still, somehow, together.
