“Mum, I’m old enough now. Can’t I just do what I want once?” huffed Emily.
They’d been arguing for days after Emily announced she wanted to spend a week in Edinburgh with her boyfriend.
“What about uni? Finals are coming up.”
“I’ll catch up. I promise. Please, Mum,” she whined.
“You barely know him. And then what?” Lydia had run out of ways to talk her out of it.
“If you don’t let me go, I’ll run away and never come back,” Emily snapped, flopping onto the sofa, hugging a cushion, and turning to face the window.
“What if she really does leave?” The thought crept into Lydia’s heart and swelled into panic. Her daughter was her whole world—the only one she had left. She couldn’t lose her.
“Mum, you always played it safe, and look where it got you. Alone. Do you want that for me?” Emily’s voice cracked.
“Darling, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you—don’t rush,” Lydia said, knowing full well Emily was in love and not listening.
Emily buried her face in the cushion and sobbed.
“Am I really my own child’s enemy? Times are different now. Everything moves fast. Maybe if I’d been braver, realised sooner that my ex wasn’t the one, my life would’ve been different.” Lydia sighed.
“Fine. Go. But you call me every day. And I can’t give you much money—you know I’m saving for the house.”
Emily tossed the cushion aside, rushed over, and hugged her.
“Mum, thank you! I don’t need money—George has some. I’ll call you loads. It’ll be fine!”
“How could I not worry? Wait till you have a daughter—then you’ll see,” Lydia thought but didn’t say. What was the point?
Emily dashed to her room and reappeared with a suitcase.
“You packed already? Would you *really* have run away?” The thought stabbed Lydia’s heart.
“You’d have said yes. I know you. I’ll call George now.” Emily grabbed her phone but didn’t dial, pausing to look at her mum.
“You should go somewhere too—Auntie Helen’s maybe? What will you even do here alone? It’s your holiday.”
“I’ll find things to do. Just… be careful. You know what I mean,” Lydia muttered, suddenly feeling like howling.
“Mum, I’m not a kid. I get it.” Emily dialled her boyfriend.
Lydia’s heart sank. From the conversation, it was clear Emily was leaving now.
“Right, Mum, the taxi’s waiting downstairs.” Emily grabbed her suitcase.
Lydia hurried after her.
“Mum, don’t walk me out. I’ll call when we’re on the train. Back in a week.” Emily pecked her cheek, missed the tears welling in her mother’s eyes, and flitted out the door.
“So that’s it—grown up, doesn’t need me anymore. Wouldn’t even let me see her off.” Lydia rushed to the window. A black cab idled below, a young man pacing impatiently beside it. “Well, he looks decent. Maybe it’ll actually be fine. Can’t protect her from everything.”
She watched the cab disappear, then slumped onto the sofa where Emily had been moments ago. Tears prickled. “Now I’m alone. Quiet. Empty. I’ll go mad here. But I’ll have to get used to it. Letting go is what mothers do.”
She sat there ages, numb. “Maybe I *should* go somewhere. The coast, maybe? It’s off-season, but still warmer than here.” She fired up Emily’s computer and checked for last-minute tickets.
A cheap flight to Brighton left tomorrow morning. Lydia hesitated, then bought a return ticket for five days later. Sick of scrimping. Sitting here, jumping at every phone call? The week would drag forever.
She packed, the busyness dulling her worry. Emily called that evening, breathless—they were at the station, waiting for the train, everything was fine—her laughter rang out before the line cut.
Lydia couldn’t sleep. “I’ll nap on the plane,” she decided, finally giving up and calling a cab. She threw on her autumn coat and left for the airport.
Even at dawn, Heathrow buzzed like a kicked hive—people hugging, rushing, shouting into phones.
She passed a couple clinging to each other in the middle of the terminal. A girl, tear-streaked, stared up at the boy, voice hollow:
“You *will* come back? Promise? I love you…” She buried her face in his chest.
He murmured something, lips brushing her hair. Lydia looked away—too private, too raw.
She checked in and waited to board, thinking of Emily. Silly girls, rushing, afraid of missing out, diving headfirst into love. How many heartbreaks lay ahead? Would they even have enough tears?
Lydia had been that girl once. Thrown herself into love. And where had it left her? Her ex couldn’t handle fatherhood, responsibility. They’d split right after Emily was born. There’d been flings, but she’d never remarried—too afraid for her daughter. Now it was too late to change anything. And here she was, flying south alone. Why? Where? But staying home would’ve driven her mad.
A man’s wheeled suitcase bumped her shin.
“Sorry,” he muttered, moving off to sit and read a magazine.
“Bet he’s meeting a mistress,” Lydia thought bitterly.
They called boarding. The man handed his ticket to the gate agent—no mistress in sight. He hesitated, and Lydia tripped over his bag again, cursing silently. Fate, it seemed, seated them across the aisle. She ignored him, then slept.
After landing, they stood at the same time, jostling as they dressed. He was *really* annoying her now.
At baggage claim, she grabbed a cab to a cheap hotel, dumped her things, and headed straight for the seafront. The sun warmed her through the coat. She breathed in the sea air, smiling. Emily texted—they’d arrived safely, were out exploring. Lydia relaxed, suddenly hungry. She hadn’t eaten properly in days.
“Mind if I join you?”
The man from the plane stood at her café table. Without waiting, he sat across from her. “We keep running into each other. If fate’s this persistent, maybe we should introduce ourselves?” He offered his hand. “I’m James.”
“Lydia.” She didn’t take it.
“Lovely name. Can I call you Lyd? Suits you.”
She shrugged. He was charming—a little older, smile easy and warm.
“Let’s skip formalities. Here on holiday?” he asked.
“What about you? Work?” she deflected.
“Got it in one. I work remotely—freelance writer, among other things. Decided to winter by the sea.”
“Writer. Sounds romantic—just the line for lonely women like me,” she thought. “Probably some middle manager sneaking off from his wife and kids.”
He must’ve read her doubt.
“I *do* write. Publish stories online. One book out—proper print, not just digital. Do some copywriting too.”
“Right. And people actually pay you?”
“Surprisingly, yes. Enough to winter down here.”
They walked the pier after lunch, him chatting about his work, books. Lydia found herself liking him more each minute. He walked her back to the hotel, didn’t push to come up.
“You should rest. I’ve got work anyway—rented a flat nearby.”
It stung a little that he didn’t ask to meet tomorrow.
But next morning, he was waiting in the lobby. They strolled, had dinner, shared wine. Lydia laughed freely, lighter than she’d felt in years.
She woke disoriented. Water ran in the bathroom. She scrambled up, dressing hurriedly.
“Hypocrite. Lecturing Emily, then *this*.”
She was forty-one—still young, really. People had babies at this age…
“Awake?” James emerged, clean-shaven, smiling. “Coffee, then I’ll walk you back. Tonight again?”
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this happy. Even thoughts of Emily brought only a fleeting guilt.
Five days vanished. Now James saw her off at the airport.
“Stay?” he asked.
“Emily’s back tomorrow. Holiday’s over.”
“Call in sick. Make something up.”
“Come with *me* then. You can work anywhere.”
She didn’t want to leave. Best five days of her life—would she ever feel this again? She bit back tears.
That weeping girl at Heathrow came to mind: *”Promise you’ll come back?”*
Now *she* was that girl. She wanted to sob into James’ chest. Instead, she inhaled sharply and walked to check-in. He didn’t follow. She didn’t look back.
On the plane, she broke down.
Home againAs she turned the key in the lock, the suitcase wheels still rolling behind her, she heard James’ voice call out from the stairs, breathless and determined, “Changed my mind—turns out I write better where you are.”
