The Road We Never Took Together
Emma and David Whitmore had one shared dream—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 this: buying a car and driving off together. No schedules, no rush, 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 their faithful Ford Fiesta, which had served them faithfully for decades. David walked around the new car like a child with a prized toy, running his hand over the bonnet, peering inside, while Emma pictured them speeding across bridges they’d never crossed, camping under the stars, sipping coffee at motorway services, watching sunsets in unfamiliar towns…
The plan was ready. Every detail mapped out: routes, overnight stops, petrol stations, packing lists. David would handle the driving and navigation—he’d memorised the map, jotted down campsite coordinates, calculated distances, and printed their itinerary. Emma took charge of the atmosphere, meals, and memories. Her notebook listed every local pub, every landmark, every perfect photo spot. They told no one—this was their secret, their intimate adventure.
Summer was fading. A few final chores at the cottage remained. It was September, the cool breeze hinting at autumn. They set off back to town—just twelve miles to their flat. The sun dipped low, Emma gazing out the window while David hummed softly. Everything felt perfect.
Until, in an instant, it wasn’t.
He slammed the brakes, fingers clenching the wheel, body jerking forward—then slumping. The car ground to a halt. Emma lurched against her seatbelt, disoriented. Then came the scream, the panic. David didn’t respond, just sagged, forehead resting on the steering wheel.
She called an ambulance, tried to rouse him. Paramedics arrived fast, but… He wasn’t breathing.
A heart attack. Instant. The seatbelt still smelled of his cologne, but he was gone.
Then came the formalities: police, their daughter Sophie and her husband, tears, questions. But Emma didn’t hear them. She still sat in the car, where she’d just been dreaming. She watched them take him away. Not a single tear fell. She was hollow.
Nine days passed. Then forty. Then three months.
Sophie visited, brought food, cleaned. Tried to talk to her mother. Nothing. Emma moved through the flat like a ghost, cooking, sleeping, waking—her soul frozen.
Then one day, Sophie asked, as if casually,
“Mum… that silver car. Whose is it?”
“David’s,” Emma began—and then memory crashed into her. Visions of him picking the colour, grinning, jotting down petrol stations… And then she wept. Really wept. Not quietly, not controlled—but violently, until Sophie was frightened. Emma sobbed all day and most of the night. Then slept. And waking, she knew: she had to live. For him.
Come spring, she returned to the cottage. Opened David’s untouched backpack and found a blue folder. Their route. His handwriting. His notes: “coffee stop here,” “you’ll want a photo here.”
She slammed it shut. Anger boiled. “What bloody dream?” she wanted to scream. Nearly threw it away. But couldn’t. Tucked it into her bag.
Now she took the train to the cottage. Her son-in-law took the car—promised to drive her, but life got busy. She didn’t mind. Didn’t need it.
Yet each evening, she opened the folder. At first, furtively. Then daily. Reading, remembering. He felt close, whispering, “Let’s go, Em.”
One night, she made up her mind. Back in town, she signed up for a course—not just any, but advanced driving. The instructor, a bloke in his twenties, scoffed at first. But Emma was relentless. She learned, practiced, gripping the wheel like it was life itself.
She got her licence. A proper one. With the endorsement. Proudly.
Then she visited Sophie. Calm. Certain.
“Love, fetch the keys. And the logbook.”
She took them, walked to the car. Stroked the bonnet. Sat. Started the engine.
And drove off without a word. Three days later, she crossed the Channel—into the country where their route began.
Further each day.
She’d talk to Sophie later. She’d understand. This was her and David’s dream. Now it was Emma’s road. A road without him. But still, somehow, together.
