The Suitcase on Wheels
“Mum, I’m grown up now. Can’t I do what I want for once?” Emily huffed.
They’d been arguing for days after she announced she wanted to spend a week in London with her boyfriend.
“What about your studies? Exams are coming up.”
“I’ll catch up. I always do. Please, Mum,” she pleaded.
“You barely know him. What then?” Lucy had run out of arguments.
“If you don’t let me, I’ll run away and never come back!” Emily grabbed a cushion, hugged it tight, and turned towards the window.
A dreadful thought crept into Lucy’s heart—what if she really did leave? Her daughter was her whole world, her only family. Losing her was unthinkable.
“Mum, you were always ‘sensible’ and ended up alone. Do you want that for me?” Emily’s voice trembled.
“Love, there’ll be time for everything. Don’t rush…” Lucy knew it was pointless. Emily was in love, and reason wouldn’t reach her now.
Emily buried her face in the cushion and sobbed.
“Am I really standing in her way? Times have changed. Everything moves so fast now. Maybe if I’d been bolder back then, figured things out sooner, my life would’ve been different.” Lucy sighed.
“Fine. Go. But call me every day. I can’t give you much—you know I’m saving for the house.” Too exhausted to argue, Lucy gave in.
Emily tossed the cushion aside and hugged her tightly.
“Thanks, Mum! I don’t need money. James has some. I’ll ring twice a day. Stop worrying—it’ll be fine!” she chirped.
“How can I not worry? Wait till you have your own daughter—then we’ll see.” Lucy bit her tongue. There was no point.
Emily dashed to her room and returned with a suitcase.
“You’d already packed? Were you really going to run off?” The thought stung.
“I knew you’d say yes. I’ll call James now.” She grabbed her phone but didn’t dial, instead turning back.
“You should get away too. Visit Aunt Rose. What’ll you do here alone? You’re on holiday,” Emily softened.
“I’ll find something. Just be careful, you hear?” Lucy muttered glumly.
“I’m not a child, Mum.” Emily dialled her boyfriend’s number.
Lucy’s stomach twisted. From the conversation, she knew he was already waiting downstairs.
“Taxi’s here. I’ll ring when we’re on the train. Back in a week!” Emily pecked her cheek, oblivious to her mother’s tears, and vanished.
“So that’s it. Grown up now, doesn’t need me.” Lucy rushed to the kitchen window. Below, a black cab idled, a lanky young man pacing beside it. “Seems decent enough. Maybe it’ll be fine. You can’t shield them forever.”
She watched the cab disappear, then slumped onto the sofa where Emily had sat. Tears welled up. “Now I’m alone. Quiet, empty—I’ll go mad here. But letting go is part of motherhood.”
She sat there awhile, paralysed. “Maybe I should get away too. Brighton, perhaps? Not summer now, but still warmer.” She booted up Emily’s laptop and searched for tickets.
A cheap return flight for the next morning popped up. Without hesitation, Lucy booked it. Enough penny-pinching. Sitting around waiting for calls would make the week drag.
Packing distracted her at first. That evening, Emily rang in a flurry—they were at the station, all was well—then hung up mid-laugh.
Too wired to sleep, Lucy gave up at dawn. “I’ll nap on the plane.” She called a cab, threw on her coat, and left.
Despite the early hour, Heathrow buzzed like a stirred hive—goodbyes, dashes, phone calls.
She passed a couple clinging to each other in the middle of the concourse. A tearful girl stared up at her boyfriend, voice hollow:
“Promise you’ll come back? I love you…” She buried her face in his chest.
He murmured into her hair, lips brushing rain-damp strands. Lucy looked away—too raw, too private.
After check-in, she waited, thinking of Emily. Silly girls, rushing headlong into love, fearing they’ll miss out. How many heartbreaks and disappointments lay ahead? Enough to drain an ocean of tears.
She’d been the same once, diving blindly. And where had it left her? Her husband hadn’t wanted fatherhood or responsibility. They split right after Emily was born. There’d been flings, but she never remarried—too busy protecting her daughter. Now it was too late to start anew. And here she was, fleeing south. Why? Where? But staying home would’ve driven her mad with worry.
A man bumped her leg with his wheeled suitcase.
“Sorry,” he muttered, settling nearby with a magazine.
“Probably meeting his mistress,” Lucy thought bitterly.
At boarding, he handed his ticket to the Gatwick attendant first. No mistress appeared. He hesitated briefly—Lucy rammed his suitcase again, cursing inwardly. Fate, it seemed, seated them across the aisle. She ignored him until sleep took over.
After landing, they dressed in awkward unison, irritating each other further. By now, he grated on her nerves.
At a seafront café, Lucy basked in the sun (she’d overdressed) and smiled at Emily’s text: *Arrived safe. Having fun*. Lucy exhaled, suddenly hungry—she hadn’t eaten properly in days.
“Mind if I join you?” The plane man sat uninvited. “We keep crossing paths. Shouldn’t we introduce ourselves?” He offered a hand. “John.”
“Lucy.” She didn’t take it.
“Rare name. Can I call you Lulu? Suits you.”
She shrugged. Handsome, slightly older, open smile.
“Let’s skip formalities. Here on holiday?” he asked.
“You? Work?”
“Remote work. I’m a writer—freelance bits too. Fancied a coastal stint.”
*Sure, a ‘writer’. Perfect bait for lonely women like me. Probably a salesman cheating on his wife.*
Her scepticism must’ve shown.
“Honest. I publish stories. One book out—marketing pays better, though.”
“People actually read them?”
“Enough to afford this.”
They strolled the promenade. He spoke of his work; Lucy found herself warming to him. He walked her back but didn’t linger. “You rest. I’ve work to do.”
The next morning, he waited in the lobby. More walks, dinner, wine—Lucy laughed freely, lighter than she’d felt in years.
Waking disoriented, the shower running, she dressed hurriedly, scolding herself. *Hypocrite—lecturing Emily, then this!* But forty-one wasn’t old. Women had babies at this age…
“Morning.” John emerged, clean-shaven. “Coffee, then I’ll walk you. See you tonight?”
She couldn’t recall feeling this content. Even thoughts of Emily brought only a blush—misread by John, who kissed her gently.
Five days vanished. Now he saw her off at the airport.
“Stay?” he urged.
“Emily’s back tomorrow. Work…”
“Call in sick. Come up with something.”
“Why don’t *you* come? You work remotely.”
She didn’t want to go. Those days had been the happiest she could remember. Fighting tears, she bit back questions about a wife or kids—why ruin it?
The memory of that sobbing girl at Heathrow echoed: *”Promise you’ll come back?”*
Now *she* was that girl. She wanted to bury herself in his chest and weep. Instead, she inhaled sharply and walked to security without looking back.
On the plane, she broke down.
Home, Emily’s shoes in the hallway startled her. She rushed in.
“Why’re you back early? What happened?”
“Mum… you were right. I didn’t know him at all,” Emily whispered.
“What did he *do*?”
“Nothing. We’re just… too different.”
“Oh, darling, it’ll pass.” Lucy held her. “Better now than too late. There’ll be others—I know.”
Over strong tea, grey November sleet tapped the window.
“You look radiant—all tanned. Wish I’d gone with you,” Emily mused.
“New Year’s soon. Fancy Aunt Rose’s?”
“But the money?”
“Sod the savings. They’ll keep.”
“Really? We’d better book now!” Emily darted to the laptop.
Lucy barely recognised herself—once cautious, now reckless. Apparently, foolishness wasn’t just for youth.
Life went on. Nights were harder—pillow-muffled tears dulled the ache eventually. *”Plenty to remember in my dotage,*” she imagined her friend saying.
A week later, her phone shrilled at dawnShe opened the door to find John standing there, suitcase in hand, his smile as warm as the sunrise over Brighton’s shore.
