Oh, why did he even look back? Should’ve just walked past…
You know how it is—when we make a choice, we convince ourselves it’s the right one, find all sorts of reasons to justify it. At first, we’re haunted by doubt, afraid of karma coming back to bite us. But when nothing happens, we relax, grow more certain we did the right thing, and just carry on, trying not to think about it.
But one day, karma shows up. Or maybe it’s just regret, long overdue.
They met in the early 2000s. James was waiting at the bus stop when he noticed a girl standing nearby. Just an ordinary girl, nothing special, really. But then his heart gave this weird little lurch, like it was shoving against his ribs. *The bus will come, she’ll get on, and I’ll never see her again.* He glanced over his shoulder—some bus *was* stopped at the traffic lights up ahead. His heart pounded harder, nudging him to move. So he walked up to her.
“Hey, which bus are you waiting for?”
She looked at him, searching his face like she might’ve known him. He stared into her eyes and knew right then he’d never forget them.
“I’m James,” he said. “You’re not waiting for the 204, are you?”
She finally smiled. “No, the 30.”
He exhaled—no bus in sight yet, so he had time.
“You live in Southwell?”
“Nah, just visiting my nan.”
“In a rush?” he asked, already bracing for disappointment.
“Not really. Why?”
“Fancy walking to the next stop with me?”
She hesitated for a second, then grinned and nodded.
His heart hammered, loud and giddy. They walked together, chatting like they’d known each other forever. By the time they reached her nan’s neighbourhood, neither of them even noticed how far they’d gone.
Before they said goodbye, they swapped numbers. Neither of them doubted—this was fate.
A year later, they were married. They lived with her nan at first, then, after finishing uni and starting jobs, got a mortgage on a two-bed flat—planning for the future.
When Natalie told him she was pregnant, his heart did that same lurch—like it was yelling, *Oi, snap out of it, dad!* And James just beamed. A dad. Unbelievable. Terrifying. Amazing.
Life flipped upside down and sped up. Suddenly, their days were nothing but planning—names, cribs, prams. James even stopped random mums on the street to ask about pushchairs. People happily dumped advice on him, everything from weaning to teething.
Friends who already had kids handed down baby grows and sleepsuits. The two of them couldn’t wait to meet their little one.
And then he arrived—a perfect blue-eyed boy. By the time Natalie came home from the hospital, the flat was ready: a brand-new cot, stacks of tiny outfits, nappies, a sleek pram waiting by the door.
The flat came alive with crying, fussing, relatives cooing.
But then, at their first check-up, the paediatrician’s face went tense.
“Is something wrong?” Natalie’s voice shook.
The doctor didn’t answer, just ordered more tests. Then came the diagnosis. Natalie sobbed while James clenched his jaw, trying to steady her. They couldn’t believe it. They were young, healthy—how was this possible?
“Difficult birth. Trauma,” the doctor said tiredly.
Dark days followed. James’s mum suggested sending the boy to a care home—*Why burden yourselves? You’ll have other kids.*
James couldn’t look at Natalie’s tear-streaked face but said firmly, “We’re keeping Connor.”
As Connor grew, he smiled, recognised them, seemed just like any other kid. They hoped the doctors were wrong. But when he should’ve been walking, his legs stayed weak.
No doctor could promise he’d ever walk. A wheelchair was his future. *Be glad his mind’s intact.*
So the fight began—physio, exercises, treatments. Natalie never went back to work. Every penny James earned went to Connor’s care and the mortgage. Her parents helped where they could.
One weekend, she asked James to take Connor to the park while she cleaned. He refused.
“Natalie, let *me* clean. You take him. Everyone else’s kids are running around, holding their mums’ hands… and then there’s Connor in his pushchair. He’s too big for it now. I can’t stand the looks people give him.”
First red flag. Then came more.
Natalie suggested selling the flat for a house—one they could adapt for Connor. Ramps, space.
“Yeah, that’d be better,” James said, eyes down. “But it won’t change much. I… I can’t do this anymore.”
She let him go. Her eyes were scared, but she didn’t cry. He tried not to think about her doing it all alone.
***
17 years later
After work, James stopped at a shop for his dad’s birthday gift. Found nothing, left.
A woman in a green trouser suit walked ahead of him. He caught the faint drift of her perfume. *Man, she’s gorgeous*, he thought, humming some old song in his head.
She paused, rummaging in her bag. He walked past—then stopped. Had to see her face.
She looked up. He’d know her anywhere. His feet froze. His heart punched his ribs.
Lately, he’d thought about her a lot. Even walked past their old house, slowing down, hoping to bump into her.
Natalie straightened. She knew him too. Her lips twitched—no smile.
“Hi, Natalie,” he said.
She had a little softness now—it suited her. Her hair was shorter, curled at the ends. But her eyes were the same.
“Hello, James.”
No spark in her gaze, no flicker of hope like that day at the bus stop or when she’d told him she was pregnant. Just curiosity.
He’d aged—thickened at the waist, grey at the temples. But his blood fizzed like he was 20 again.
“You in a rush?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“Fancy a coffee?” He nodded at a café.
She agreed. No nerves now—just calm. The man she’d loved was gone.
“Natalie, you look amazing,” he said after they’d sat.
“The grey suits you,” she replied. “How’ve you been? Married?”
“Divorced. Two daughters—they live with their mum. Only call when they need cash. You?”
“Nah. Just popped in to get Connor some trainers.”
“Connor… he walks?”
“Yeah. Not like most people, though. Burns through shoes like mad. He’s got a girlfriend now. Just finished uni—works from home, does programming. Runs a blog. Earns more than me.”
Her eyes glowed—so proud.
“Didn’t expect that. I’m glad.”
“Took everything we had. After you left, Mum retired to help with Connor. I got a job. Sold our places, bought a house. Dad sorted everything for him. He died three years ago. Mum still lives with us.”
“You’re incredible. I’m sorry. I chickened out. Felt like life was passing me by—”
“Don’t. I forgave you ages ago.”
“Can I see Connor?”
She studied him.
“James… I won’t stop you. But he hasn’t forgiven you.”
“Right.” He stared at the table. “If I could go back—”
“Don’t,” she cut in. “You’d still have left. You chose to. Your mum helped, didn’t she?”
Then her phone rang—muffled pop from her bag.
“That’s Connor,” she smiled, answering. “Lost me? Just shopping. Be home soon.” She hung up. “Gotta go. Good seeing you.” She stood, waiting—for what, he didn’t know.
“Need a lift?”
“Oh, no.” She was already walking.
He watched her leave, aching. Her half-drunk coffee sat forgotten.
Suddenly, he bolted after her—just in time to see her car pull away.
At home, his Labrador wagged furiously, nosing his hand.
“Hold on,” James muttered, sinking onto the sofa. The dog sat, watching him.
He called his eldest.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“Just… missed you. How’s your mum?”
“Fine. New boyfriend. Jules is off on a school trip.”
“Fancy visiting?”
“Nah, sorry. Busy. I’ll call.” A kiss noise, then silence.
“They’ve got no time,” he told the dog. “Your owner’s a failure. Left the woman he loved, his son. He’s got a son, you know. But he won’t visit. Won’t call. Doesn’t forgive me.” He sighedHe stroked the Labrador’s head absently, wondering if it was too late to try again, if maybe—just maybe—Connor might one day give him the chance to say sorry.
