The Traffic Jam
The cars stood utterly still, packed in tight rows. For the past half hour, there had been no movement in either direction. Every window was rolled up, air conditioning humming against the unbearable heat outside—well over thirty degrees, just as the weatherman had warned on the radio.
The air above the sun-scorched tarmac shimmered, distorting the view. Inside the Toyota, it was cool, but sitting motionless, staring at the frozen tableau ahead, had long since grown tedious.
Laura twisted the cap off her plastic bottle and took a few gulps. David noticed only a third of the water remained. She kept sipping, never offering him any. Not that he would have taken it—he’d have given her the last drop without hesitation. But she drank as if he weren’t even there.
“How much longer is this going to last?” Laura snapped irritably.
They hadn’t spoken since leaving the cottage. Her silence was worse than shouting. At least when she shouted, it was over quickly. When angry, she withdrew for hours, sometimes days, making it clear with every gesture that David was at fault. He’d admit his mistakes, apologise, endure her monotone lectures, and eventually, they’d reconcile.
“Don’t just sit there. Do something,” Laura lashed out again, as if the standstill on the M25 were his fault.
This time, it was David who stayed silent. He had no answer.
“Why did we even go to that stupid cottage? Fine for you, but me? Just so I could sit outside the fence while you fawned over your daughter? I should’ve gone shopping. Or met Nina for ice cream.” She sniffed.
“Great, now my nose is blocked. As if I needed a cold from this blasted air conditioning.”
David turned it off.
“Are you serious? The car will roast in minutes. Do you want us to suffocate?”
He didn’t recall her ever talking so much. It unsettled him. But he said nothing and switched the cooling back on. Ahead, a man wove between the lanes. Before reaching their car, he slipped into a vehicle in the next row.
“Did you see that? He came from up front. Maybe he knows why we’re stuck?”
“Maybe.”
“Then go ask him,” Laura said, not even looking at him.
“What’s the point? The jam could stretch for miles. You think he walked that far in half an hour? Doubt it.” David glanced at her and immediately regretted it.
“We can’t just sit here forever. Sooner or later, it’ll clear. This is the M25, not some backroad. Half of London must be stranded.” He trailed off. Laura stared straight ahead, silent.
“Fine.” David stepped out.
Rows upon rows of cars stretched behind them, identical to those ahead. The man had climbed into a red vehicle. David tapped the window, which slid halfway down.
“Excuse me—did you walk up front? Any idea why we’re stopped?”
“Feels like the whole M25’s gridlocked. No one knows. Could be an accident. Or worse.”
Nothing new. David had suspected as much. The heat outside was suffocating. By the time he straightened, his shirt clung damply to his back. He returned to the car just as the radio crackled with news—nothing about the jam.
“Well?” Laura demanded.
“No idea. Someone said it might be… an incident.”
“Of course. Why did I even listen to you?”
David agreed silently. He shouldn’t have persuaded her to come. He’d have avoided this mess entirely, stayed at the cottage with his daughter as she’d wanted. Driven back in the cool evening, long after the traffic cleared.
And it had all started so well…
***
David woke to his phone buzzing. Half-asleep, he answered without checking.
“Dad, are you coming?” Emily’s voice.
“Hello? Did you forget your daughter’s birthday?” His ex-wife’s tone was sharp. “I’m sure you haven’t even bought a present yet.”
“No, I remembered—I’m leaving now,” he lied, eyes snapping open. Sunlight streamed through the blinds. The clock read half nine.
He *had* remembered—until last night. Then Laura, his friends, and too many drinks at the pub wiped it clean.
“Dad, I don’t need presents—just come!” Emily shouted in the background before the line went dead.
They’d married young, thirteen years ago. Ten of those years were misery, two people chained together, resentful and restless. He hadn’t loved her. Just woke up one morning after a university party beside a girl whose name he barely recalled.
A month later, she found him on campus. Pregnant. “She’s not bad,” he’d thought, and agreed to marry her. His parents protested—his mother even doubted the child was his—but the test after Emily’s birth confirmed it.
He fell in love with his daughter instantly, the moment he held her in the hospital. Never imagined such a thing was possible. That love kept him enduring his wife’s jealousy, her nagging. He might still be there, if not for Laura.
Cool, arrogant, effortlessly beautiful—she never screamed like his ex. Her silence was punishment enough. That was her only flaw. She’d wander their flat in tiny shorts, teasing him without a word. He’d apologise, even when he’d done nothing wrong.
Sometimes he envied *himself* for having her.
After Emily’s call, Laura asked what was wrong. He admitted he’d forgotten the birthday, that he’d promised to visit their summer cottage.
“You’re leaving? Now? So I spend Sunday alone?” She pouted, rose naked from bed, and strode to the bathroom. The sight short-circuited his brain. He followed.
“Come with me.”
“To your ex’s cottage? To see your daughter?”
“Well… yes. What’s the problem? We’re divorced.” He braced for refusal. “It’s lovely there—woods, the river, we could swim…”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes. But we should hurry.”
They bought Emily a gift and drove out. Just as David predicted, Laura lost her nerve at the last moment, waiting in the car while he went inside.
Emily flung herself into his arms, and he realised how much he’d missed her. Time vanished. When he said he had to leave, she clung to him, crying.
His ex stood nearby, listening as he spun excuses—work tomorrow, traffic, the long drive…
“Time to go. She’s waiting in the car, isn’t she? Brave enough to come, too cowardly to step inside?” His ex smirked.
David didn’t grace her with a glance.
“I’ll visit next Sunday,” he promised Emily, prying her hands away. His heart ached—love for her, guilt over Laura waiting outside.
He thought he’d been quick. In reality, forty minutes had passed. Laura met him with a silent glare, turned away. As he started the engine, he stole one last look at the cottage. Through the fence, he saw his ex and Emily. Was that a smirk? He couldn’t be sure.
The entire drive back, David apologised. He couldn’t just leave—Emily was crying… Laura stayed stubbornly mute, even as they inched into the snarl of traffic.
Now, stranded, he wondered: *Why did I drag her here?*
***
“Why did you talk me into this?” Laura asked again.
“How was I supposed to know we’d get stuck?” he burst out. “I’m not bloody psychic!”
She blinked, startled by his outburst.
“Don’t shout at me,” she hissed.
“Sorry. Let’s just… wait this out.”
“No.”
“What?” He frowned at her sudden resolve.
“You don’t get it.” Her calm tone chilled him. “I don’t love you. Haven’t for ages. I can’t do this anymore. You never *decide* anything.”
She stepped out, turning to face him, one hand on the door—missing the cars behind her lurching forward.
“I *don’t love you!*” she repeated, stepping back—
“Laura, wait!” David shouted—
Too late.
A delivery van accelerated just as she moved.
Then, the gridlock broke. Horns blared. Exhausted drivers surged past, swerving around them.
Laura lay motionless, no visible injuries.
“Not my fault—she stepped right—” the van driver stammered.
“Help me get her in the car,” David ordered.
Who knew when an ambulance would arrive? He drove her to hospital himself, the van driver trailing behind. A young doctor examined her, assured him there were no fractures, and told him to return tomorrow.
He came back with flowers and fruit.
Laura’s bed was empty. Further down the ward, she sat beside the same doctor, smiling as he held her hand.
David left the gifts at the nurses’ station and walked away.
A week later, Laura collected her things. Through the window, he watched her climb into a waitingAnd as he watched her drive away, David realised the only traffic jam he’d ever truly been stuck in was the one inside his own heart.
