**The Wheeled Suitcase**
*Diary Entry*
“Mum, I’m an adult now. Can’t I just do something I want for once?” Emily argued.
They’d been going back and forth for days ever since she announced she wanted to spend a week in Brighton with her boyfriend.
“What about your studies? Exams are coming up.”
“I’m doing fine. I’ll catch up. Please, Mum,” she whined.
“You barely know him. What then?” Margaret had run out of ways to talk her out of it.
“If you don’t let me go, I’ll leave and never come back!” Emily flung herself onto the sofa, hugged a cushion to her chest, and turned away to stare out the window.
Margaret’s chest tightened. *What if she really does leave?* Her daughter was her whole world—her only family. Losing her would be unbearable.
“Mum, you’ve always done the ‘right’ thing, and look where it got you. Alone. You want that for me too?” Emily’s voice cracked with frustration.
“Love, there’s plenty of time. Don’t rush…” But Margaret knew her words meant nothing. Emily was in love and deaf to reason.
Her daughter buried her face in the cushion and sobbed.
*Am I really her enemy? Times are different now. Everything moves so fast. Maybe if I’d been braver, figured things out sooner, seen through her father before it was too late…* Margaret sighed.
“Fine. Go. But call me every day. I can’t give you much—you know I’ve been saving for the house.”
Emily tossed the cushion aside and threw her arms around her.
“Thank you! I don’t need money—Harry’s got it covered. I’ll call all the time, I promise. Don’t worry.”
*How could I not?* Margaret thought bitterly. *Wait till you have a daughter of your own.*
Emily dashed to her room and reappeared with a suitcase.
“You’d already packed? So you *would* have run off?” The realisation stung.
“You’d have let me. I know you. I’ll call Harry now.” She grabbed her phone, hesitated, then turned back.
“You should get away too. Maybe visit Aunt Jane? What’ll you do here alone? It’s your holiday.”
“I’ll manage. Just… be careful out there. You know what I mean.”
Emily rolled her eyes.
“*Mum.* I’m not a child.” She dialled Harry’s number.
Margaret’s stomach lurched. The conversation made it clear—Emily was leaving *now.*
“Taxi’s downstairs. I’ll call when we’re on the train. Back in a week.” She pecked Margaret’s cheek and rushed out before her mother could see the tears welling in her eyes.
*That’s it, then. She’s grown up. Doesn’t need me anymore.* Margaret hurried to the kitchen window. Below, a black cab idled beside a lanky young man. *He looks decent. Maybe it’ll be fine. Can’t shield her from everything.*
She watched the cab disappear, then slumped onto the sofa, tears pricking her eyes. *Quiet. Empty. I’ll go mad here. This is every mother’s fate—letting go.*
She sat there, numb, until a thought struck her. *Why not go away too? The seaside. It’s not summer, but still warmer than here.*
She fired up Emily’s laptop. A cheap flight to Bournemouth left the next morning. Margaret booked it without hesitation—there and back in five days. No more penny-pinching. Sitting around waiting for calls would make the week drag.
Packing kept her mind off the dread. That evening, Emily called, breathless and laughing—on the platform, everything fine—then hung up mid-giggle.
Margaret barely slept. *I’ll rest on the plane.*
Heathrow buzzed like a hive even at dawn. Couples embraced, travellers sprinted to gates.
A girl clutched her boyfriend, tear-streaked face pleading.
“You *promise* you’ll come back? I love you…”
Margaret looked away. Too raw. Too intimate.
After check-in, she slumped in a seat. *Silly girls, rushing headlong into love. They don’t know how many heartbreaks lie ahead.*
She’d been just as reckless. And where had it landed her? Alone, raising a daughter, too afraid to risk anything. Now here she was—running to the coast like a cliché.
A man’s wheeled suitcase clipped her ankle.
“Sorry,” he muttered, settling nearby with a newspaper.
*Probably meeting some mistress.*
Boarding began. He handed his ticket to the attendant. No mistress appeared. When Margaret bumped into his suitcase again, she cursed under her breath.
Fate had them seated across the aisle. She ignored him until sleep took over.
Landing was chaos. They dressed in sync, elbows colliding. She *loathed* him by then.
A taxi took her to a cheap hotel. She dumped her bags and headed straight to the pier. The sun warmed her coat-clad shoulders.
Emily texted—*Safe, having fun*—and the knot in Margaret’s chest loosened. Hunger surprised her. She hadn’t eaten properly in days.
“Mind if I join you?”
The plane man slid into her café booth uninvited.
“Seems we’re destined to collide. Might as well meet properly.” He extended a hand. “John.”
“Margaret.” She left his hand hanging.
“Beautiful name. Can I call you Maggie? Suits you.”
She shrugged. Handsome, slightly older, with an easy grin.
“Let’s skip formalities. Here on holiday?”
“You?”
“Working remotely. I’m a writer. Freelance gigs too.”
*A writer. Right.*
His smirk said he’d caught her scepticism.
“Seriously. Short stories, one published novel. Ads pay the bills.”
She arched a brow.
“People *pay* for that?”
“Enough to holiday while I work.”
They strolled the promenade. He talked books, travel. By the hotel door, she realised she liked him.
“Better let you rest,” he said, no push to meet tomorrow.
Yet there he was at dawn, waiting in the lobby.
Wine flowed at dinner. Margaret laughed louder than she had in years.
Morning brought disorientation. Running water—*his* shower. She scrambled into clothes, cursing herself. *Hypocrite.*
But forty-one wasn’t old. Plenty of women had babies at this age.
John emerged, clean-shaven, grinning.
“Coffee, then I’ll walk you. Work calls. Tonight?”
Margaret couldn’t recall feeling this light. Even thoughts of Emily barely dimmed it.
Five days vanished. At the airport, John gripped her hands.
“Stay.”
“Emily’s back tomorrow. Work…”
“Call in sick. Make an excuse.”
“Come with *me*. You can work anywhere.”
She bit back tears. This week had been magic. She ached to ask about ex-wives, kids, but didn’t. No need to ruin it.
That weeping girl at Heathrow echoed in her mind—*Promise you’ll come back?*
Now *she* was the one clinging to a goodbye.
She forced herself to walk. He didn’t follow.
On the plane, she wept silently.
Home smelled of Emily’s shoes in the hallway. Margaret rushed in—her daughter sat hunched at the computer.
“You’re back early! What happened?”
“You were right. I didn’t really know him.” Emily’s voice wavered.
“Did he *hurt* you?”
“No. We’re just… wrong for each other.”
Margaret pulled her close.
“It’s better to figure that out now. You’ll find your person. I know it.”
Over tea, grey sleet tapped the window.
“You look younger. Glowing.” Emily studied her. “Wish I’d gone with you.”
“New Year’s break—how about Aunt Jane’s?”
“But the money—”
“Sod the savings. The house isn’t going anywhere.”
Emily perked up. “Seriously? We’ll need tickets *now*—” She dashed off.
Margaret barely recognised herself. Cautious homebody one minute, reckless adventurer the next. Youth didn’t own impulsiveness.
Her heart still lingered on that pier with John.
But life went on. Nights were harder—pillow-muffled sobs. Slowly, the ache dulled. *Something to remember when I’m old,* she told herself.
Then, one Saturday, her phone rang. Unknown number.
“Maggie?”
Her knees buckled.
She’d deleted his number mid-flight. Assumed he had too.
“Sorry I didn’t call. Tried to forget you. Couldn’t.” His voice cracked. “I need to see you. Where do you live?”
Silence.
“*Please.*”
“What about your wife? Kids?”
“”Divorced three years ago—she hated me working remotely, even though it paid well—no kids, just you, Maggie, so tell me where you are.”
