The Road We Never Took Together
Emily and David Wilson dreamed of one thing—a car. Not just a hunk of metal on wheels, but their ticket to the freedom they’d imagined since their wedding day. Almost thirty years—work, the allotment, odd jobs, countless small sacrifices—all for one dream: to buy a car and set off on a journey together. No schedules, no fuss, 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 Ford Fiesta, which had served them for years. David fussed over the car like a child with a new toy, running his fingers over the bonnet, peering inside. Emily could already picture them speeding over bridges they’d never crossed, sleeping in campsites, sipping coffee at service stations, watching sunsets in unfamiliar towns…
The plan had been ready for ages. Every detail was mapped out: the route, stops for the night, places to eat, packing lists. David was in charge of driving and logistics. He’d memorised the map, noted down campsites and petrol stations, calculated distances, even printed a schedule. Emily handled the mood, food, and memories. Her notebook listed every bistro with local dishes, every landmark, every perfect photo spot. They told no one—this was their private story, just for them.
Summer was fading. They had a few last chores at the allotment. September’s chill whispered of autumn. The drive back to their flat was just twenty kilometres. The sun dipped low, Emily gazed out the window, and David hummed quietly. Everything was perfect.
Until, in an instant, it wasn’t.
He slammed the brakes, gripping the wheel, his body jerking forward—then slumping. The car stopped dead in the road. Emily lurched against her seatbelt, stunned. Then—screaming, panic. David wasn’t responding. Just limp, his head dropped onto the wheel.
Emily called an ambulance, tried to rouse him. The paramedics arrived fast, but… He wasn’t breathing.
A heart attack. Instant. His seatbelt still carried the faint scent of his cologne, but he was gone.
The formalities blurred—police, their daughter and son-in-law, tears, questions. But Emily didn’t hear any of it. She sat in the car, still in the seat where she’d been dreaming moments before, watching them take him away. She didn’t shed a tear. She was hollow.
Nine days passed. Then forty. Then three months.
Their daughter, Sophie, visited with food, cleaned, tried to coax conversation. No use. Emily moved through the flat like a ghost—sleeping, waking, making soup, her soul frozen.
Then one day, Sophie asked, as if casually:
*“Mum, that silver car… whose is it?”*
*“David’s—”* Emily began, and suddenly memory crashed over her. The way he’d debated the colour, the way he’d grinned, the way he’d scribbled petrol station coordinates… And then she wept. Properly, for the first time. Not quietly, not restrained—but with a raw, jagged grief that scared Sophie. She sobbed all day and most of the night. Then slept. And when she woke—she knew. She had to live. For him.
In spring, she went back to the allotment. Opened David’s untouched rucksack and found a blue folder. Their route. His handwriting. His notes: *“coffee stop here,” “you’ll want photos here.”*
She slammed it shut. Tears rose, anger boiled. *“What bloody dream?!”* she wanted to scream. She nearly threw it away. But couldn’t. Tucked it into her bag.
Now she took the train to the allotment. Their son-in-law took the car, promising to drive her, but life got in the way. She didn’t mind. Didn’t need it anymore.
But at night, she opened the folder. First—furtively. Then—often. Reading, remembering. It was like having him beside her, whispering: *“Let’s go, Em.”*
And one evening, she made a choice. Back in London, she signed up for a course. Not just any—advanced driving. The instructor, a bloke in his twenties, scoffed at first. But Emily was stubborn. Learned, practised, gripped the wheel like her life depended on it.
She passed. A proper licence, with full certification. Proudly.
Then she went to Sophie’s. Calm. Certain.
*“Love, come down a sec. With the keys. And the paperwork.”*
She took them, walked to the car. Stroked the bonnet. Got in. Started the engine.
And drove away—without a word. Three days later, she crossed the Channel—to the country where their journey was meant to begin.
Further and further.
She’d talk to Sophie later. She’d understand. It was their dream—hers and David’s. And now—it was Emily’s road. A road without him. But still, somehow, together.
