**Diary Entry**
Why did I even turn around? I should have just walked past…
When we make decisions, we convince ourselves we’re doing the right thing, finding excuses. At first, we’re haunted by doubts, afraid of repercussions—some form of karmic justice. But when nothing happens, we relax, grow confident in our choice, and move on, pushing the memory away.
Then, one day, the past catches up. Or perhaps it’s just guilt, arriving too late.
We met in the early 2000s. James walked up to the bus stop and waited. Nearby stood a girl—ordinary, like any other. Yet, his heart thumped against his ribs. *The bus will come, she’ll leave, and I’ll never see her again.* He glanced over his shoulder. A bus idled at the traffic lights. His pulse quickened, urging him forward. Before he could think, he approached her.
“Hi. Which bus are you waiting for?”
She studied him, searching for recognition, while he stared into her eyes, knowing he’d never forget them.
“I’m James. You’re not waiting for the 204, are you?”
“No,” she finally smiled. “The number 30.”
James exhaled in relief. No sign of the bus yet—he still had time.
“Do you live in Southside?”
“No, I’m visiting my gran.”
“In a hurry?” he asked, bracing himself.
“Not really. Why?” Her curiosity warmed him.
His voice brightened before he could stop it.
“Fancy walking to the next stop?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
His heart raced as they walked, then kept walking—past one stop, then another, all the way to her gran’s neighbourhood. Time blurred beneath their feet. By the time Emma paused outside her gran’s house, they already knew each other as if they’d met years ago. Before parting, they exchanged numbers and addresses. Neither doubted they’d found something rare.
A year later, they married. They lived with Emma’s gran at first, then bought a two-bed flat after graduating—room for the future. When Emma told him she was pregnant, his heart lurched just like the day they met, as if shouting, *Well, get a move on, Dad!* James grinned. He was going to be a father. Sudden, terrifying, wonderful.
Life accelerated. Their days filled with planning—names, nursery colours, prams. James even stopped mothers on the street to ask about pushchairs. Friends handed down baby clothes, already dreaming of their little one.
Then, their son arrived—bright-eyed, perfect. By the time Emma came home, the flat was ready: a crib, tiny clothes folded neatly, nappies stacked, a sleek pram waiting in the hall. Their families crowded in, cooing over the baby.
At the first check-up, the paediatrician’s frown turned Emma’s voice shaky.
“Is something wrong?”
Tests followed. Then the diagnosis. Emma sobbed; James clenched his jaw, comforting her through his own disbelief. *How?* They were young, healthy—this couldn’t be real.
“Prolonged labour, birth trauma,” the doctor said wearily.
Dark days came. James’s mother suggested… other options. *”You can try again. This is a lifetime burden.”*
James couldn’t meet Emma’s tear-filled eyes but said firmly, “We’re keeping Ben.”
Ben grew. He smiled, recognised them, seemed normal—until he should’ve taken his first steps. His legs faltered. Doctors offered no promises. *”Be grateful his mind’s intact.”*
The fight began: physio, exercises, massages. Emma quit her job to care for him. James’s salary vanished into medical bills and mortgage payments.
One weekend, Emma asked him to take Ben to the park.
“You tidy up,” he countered. “I can’t stand the stares. Other kids running, playing… parents pitying Ben in his pram. He’s too big for it now.”
That was the first crack. Others followed.
When Emma suggested selling the flat for a house—*”We’ll build ramps. Ben could go outside alone.”*—James hesitated.
“You’re right,” he murmured, avoiding her gaze. “But… it won’t change enough. I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
She let him go. Her eyes held panic, but no tears. He tried not to picture her alone, juggling bills, decisions, grief.
***
Seventeen years later
After work, James browsed for his dad’s birthday gift. Finding nothing, he headed out. Ahead, a woman in a green trouser suit walked briskly. Her figure was elegant, her perfume subtle. *God, she’s stunning.* Unthinking, he followed, humming under his breath.
She paused, rummaging in her handbag. He passed her—then stopped. *What does her face look like?*
She glanced up.
He’d have known her anywhere.
His feet rooted to the spot; his heart slammed against his ribs. Lately, he’d thought of her often—wandered past their old house, hoping for a glimpse.
Emma straightened. Recognised him. Her lips twitched, but she didn’t smile.
“Hello, Emma,” he said.
She’d softened with age—curves suited her. Makeup highlighted her beauty; her hair curled at her shoulders. Only her eyes were unchanged.
“James,” she replied.
No spark. No tremor like that first day, or when she’d told him she was pregnant. Just curiosity.
“Are you busy?” he asked, déjà vu tugging at him.
“Not really.”
“Let’s grab a coffee?” He nodded towards a café.
She agreed. Sitting across from her now, he marvelled at her. *”You look incredible.”*
“The grey suits you,” she said lightly. “How’ve you been? Married?”
“Divorced. Two daughters—they call when they need money. You?”
“No. Just popped in to buy Ben some trainers.”
“Ben… does he walk?”
“With difficulty. Burns through shoes. He’s a programmer now—works from home, runs a blog. Our main breadwinner.” Pride glowed in her eyes.
James swallowed. “I’m glad.”
“We sold our flats, bought a house after you left. Dad built ramps. He died three years ago. Mum lives with us.”
“You’re amazing.” His voice cracked. “I was a coward. I thought life was passing me by—”
“Don’t.” She cut him off. “You’d have left either way. Ben hasn’t forgiven you, though.”
His chest ached. “Can I see him?”
She studied him. “I won’t stop you. But he won’t welcome it.”
Her phone buzzed—Ben’s ringtone.
“Lost me?” she teased into the phone. “Just shopping. Be home soon.” Hanging up, she stood. “I should go. It was nice seeing you.”
James watched her leave, her half-finished coffee cooling on the table.
Then he bolted outside—just in time to see her drive away.
At home, his Labrador wagged eagerly.
“Hold on,” James muttered, sinking onto the sofa. He dialled his eldest.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“Just… wanted to chat. How’s your mum?”
“Oh, fine. She’s got a new bloke. Jules is on a school trip.”
“Visit soon?”
“Can’t. Too busy. I’ll call you.” A kiss noise, then silence.
James sighed at the dog. “No time for me. Pathetic, isn’t it? Left the woman I loved. My son hates me.” The Labrador whined. “She’s still gorgeous. Think I’ve got a chance?”
The dog pawed his knee.
That night, James tossed in bed, replaying his life. The dog watched from its bed, ears pricked at every sigh.
His thoughts were bleak. Without Emma, without Ben, his life felt hollow. His daughters didn’t need him. Only the dog cared.
*Why did I turn around? Should’ve walked past. Look at her now.* Jealousy twisted in his gut—not of another man, but of the life he’d thrown away.
