And why did I turn back? If only I had walked on by…
When we make a choice, we convince ourselves it’s right, weaving justifications to quiet our conscience. At first, doubt gnaws at us—fear of cosmic retribution, the dread that we’ll pay for what we’ve done. Yet when nothing happens, we grow bold, certain our choice was sound. We carry on, pushing the memory aside. Until, one day, the past circles back—or regret arrives, too late.
They met in the early 2000s. Edward had stopped at the bus stand, waiting for the next ride. Nearby stood a girl, ordinary, one of countless others. Yet his heart lurched as if struck. *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 knew it, he was beside her.
“Hello. Which bus are you waiting for?”
She looked up, searching his face for familiarity. He met her eyes—clear, bright—and knew he’d never forget them, nor sleep soundly again.
“I’m Edward. You’re not waiting for the 204, are you?”
“No,” she smiled at last. “The 30.”
Relief washed over him. No bus in sight—he had time.
“Do you live in Southgate?” he ventured.
“No, I’m visiting my grandmother.”
“In a hurry?” he asked, bracing himself.
“Not really. Why?” Curiosity flickered in her gaze.
His voice brightened despite himself.
“Fancy walking to the next stop together?”
She hesitated, then nodded with a grin.
His heart hammered as they strolled side by side, then to another stop, and another… Until they reached the quiet cul-de-sac where Emily’s grandmother lived, lost in conversation, oblivious to the miles or the hours slipping by.
When they paused outside the house, they’d already shared lifetimes’ worth of stories, as if they’d known each other forever. Before parting, they exchanged numbers and addresses. Neither doubted they’d found their match.
A year passed, fueled by stolen moments until they married. They lived with Emily’s grandmother at first, then, after graduating and landing jobs, took out a mortgage on a two-bedroom flat—planning for the future.
When Emily told him she was pregnant, Edward’s heart leapt just as it had that first day, as if scolding, *Well, aren’t you going to say something, Dad?* He beamed. Fatherhood—unexpected, terrifying, wonderful.
Life shifted gears. Their days became a blur of planning, debating names, rearranging furniture. Edward stopped new mothers in the street, quizzing them about prams and feeding schedules. Friends, already parents, handed down tiny clothes, their own children outgrowing them.
Time dragged until, at last, their blue-eyed boy arrived. By the time Emily came home from the hospital, the nursery held a crib with plush bumpers, a wardrobe stacked with sleepsuits, and a sleek pram parked by the door, ready for long walks.
The flat buzzed with laughter and fussing relatives when Edward carried in the swaddled bundle. But at the first check-up, the paediatrician’s grim expression silenced the room.
“Is something wrong?” Emily’s voice wavered.
The doctor ordered tests. Then came the diagnosis. Emily wept; Edward clenched his jaw, comforting her even as denial roared inside. *How? They were young, healthy—this couldn’t be real.*
“Difficult labor. Birth trauma,” the doctor said wearily.
Despair gave way to grim acceptance. Edward’s mother suggested institutionalizing the boy—sparing them a lifetime of burden. *Try again for a healthy child.*
Edward couldn’t meet Emily’s tear-streaked face but said firmly, “We’re keeping Toby.”
The boy grew, smiling, seeming normal—until he should’ve taken his first steps. His legs, weak, buckled. No doctor promised he’d walk. *Be grateful his mind’s intact.*
The battle began: physiotherapy, exercises, massages. Emily quit work to care for him. Edward’s salary vanished into treatments and mortgage payments. Their parents helped where they could.
One weekend, Emily asked Edward to take Toby to the park while she cleaned. He refused.
“You go. I’ll tidy. Every other kid’s running around, holding their mum’s hand. The stares—Toby’s too big for a pram now. I can’t stand it.”
The first warning sign. Others followed.
Later, Emily suggested selling the flat for a house.
“We’ll add ramps—give Toby independence. It’s best for him.”
“Yes,” Edward said, avoiding her eyes. “But it won’t fix everything. I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
She let him go. Her eyes held panic, but no tears. He refused to dwell on what she’d face alone—finances, decisions, exhaustion…
***
Seventeen years later
After work, Edward browsed for his father’s birthday gift. Finding nothing, he headed out. Ahead walked a woman in a green trouser suit, her figure elegant, her perfume subtle. *”What a woman,”* he hummed inwardly.
She paused, rummaging in her handbag. He passed her—then halted. *What if her face matched her grace?* She looked up. He’d have known her in a crowd. His heart clawed at his ribs.
Lately, he’d thought of her often—even lingered near their old house, hoping for a glimpse.
Emily straightened. Recognition flashed. The ghost of a smile touched her lips.
“Hello, Emily,” he said, stepping closer.
She’d softened with age, but it suited her. Her face was lovelier now, hair curled at her shoulders. Only her eyes were unchanged.
“Hello, Edward,” she said lightly.
No tremor, no hope—just quiet surprise. He knew he’d thickened, greyed. Yet his blood surged.
“In a hurry?” he asked, déjà vu prickling.
“Not really.”
“Fancy a coffee, then?” He nodded toward a café.
She agreed. Now, she could meet his gaze without flinching. The man before her was familiar yet distant—still handsome, but no longer hers.
“You look wonderful,” he said as they sat.
“The grey suits you,” she replied. “How’s life? Married?”
“Divorced. Two daughters—with their mum. They call when they need money. You?”
“Never remarried. Just popped in to check trainers for Toby.”
“Toby… walks?”
“Yes. Not like others. Burns through shoes, though. Has a girlfriend now. Just graduated—works remotely as a coder. Runs a blog. Earns more than I do.”
Pride glowed in her voice.
“I never imagined. I’m glad.”
“It wasn’t easy. After you left, Mum retired to help. We sold our flats for a house. Dad built ramps everywhere. He died three years ago. Mum’s still with us.”
“You’re amazing. Truly. I—I panicked. Ran. I can’t excuse it—”
“Don’t. I forgave you long ago.”
“Could I… see Toby?”
She studied him.
“I won’t stop you. But he hasn’t forgiven you.”
“I see.” His head bowed. “If I could undo it—”
“Don’t,” she cut in. “You’d have left anyway. It was your choice. Your mother helped, didn’t she? Men leave healthy children, too. I should go. Toby’s waiting.”
Her phone chirped a muffled tune.
“That’s him,” she smiled, answering. “Lost me? Just shopping. Be home soon… Yes, I’ll get them.”
“Really must go.” She stood. “Good seeing you.” Her gaze lingered, as if waiting.
“Need a lift?”
“Oh, no.” She was gone before he could blink.
He watched her car vanish, then trudged home. His Labrador greeted him eagerly, nosing his hand.
“Hold on,” Edward muttered, sinking onto the sofa. The dog sat before him, tail wagging.
He dialed his eldest.
“Hi, Dad. What’s up?”
“Just… wanted to hear your voice. Mum okay?”
“Fine. New boyfriend. Jules is on a school trip.”
“Could you visit sometime?”
“Sorry, no time. I’ll call.” A smack of a kiss, then silence.
“No time for me,” he told the dog. “Their father’s a failure. Left the woman he loved. Abandoned his son. You know I have a son? He won’t call. Won’t forgive. But Emily—God, she’s beautiful. Maybe… maybe it’s not too late?” The dog whined, paws shifting.
“Alright, walk time.”
That night, he tossed and turned, replaying his life. The dog watched from its bed, ears pricked at every sigh.
Regret festered. Without Emily, without Toby, his lifeHe buried his face in the Labrador’s fur and wondered if it was too late to beg Toby for a second chance.
