*Why Did I Look Back? Should’ve Kept Walking…*
When we make choices, we convince ourselves they’re the right ones, justifying every step. At first, doubts linger—fear of karmic backlash, of consequences catching up. But nothing happens, so we settle, growing certain we did no wrong, and life moves on. We avoid looking back.
Until the past returns. Or regret does.
They met in the early 2000s. James stood at the bus stop, waiting. Nearby, a girl—ordinary, like any other—stood bundled in her coat. Yet his heart thudded 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.
“—Hi. Which bus are you waiting for?”
The girl studied his face, searching for recognition. He stared into her eyes and knew—he’d never forget them.
“—I’m James. You’re not waiting for the 205, are you?”
“—No,” she finally smiled. “The 42.”
Relief. No bus in sight—still time.
“—You live in Southside?”
“—No, visiting my grandma.”
“—In a hurry?” He sounded resigned.
“—Not really. Why?” Curiosity flickered in her gaze.
His voice brightened.
“—Fancy walking to the next stop?”
A pause. Then she nodded.
Heart racing, they walked together—past one stop, then another—until they reached her grandmother’s estate in Croydon, neither noticing the distance or the cold. By the time Sophie paused at her grandmother’s door, they’d shared lifetimes in an afternoon. They exchanged numbers without hesitation, certain fate had intervened.
A year later, they married. They stayed with Sophie’s grandmother at first, then, once they’d graduated and found work, took out a mortgage on a two-bed flat—planning ahead.
When Sophie told him she was pregnant, James’s heart hammered as it had that first day, as if shouting: *Well? Move, Dad!* He grinned. A father. Sudden. Terrifying. Wonderful.
Life accelerated. They debated names, crib positions, pram models. James stopped mothers on the street for advice. Friends offered hand-me-downs, eager to offload outgrown babygrows.
Then their blue-eyed boy arrived. The flat was ready: a crib with padded rails, stacks of tiny clothes, a top-range pram by the door. James carried their son inside, the flat erupting with newborn cries and relatives’ coos.
At the first check-up, Sophie noticed the pediatrician’s frown.
“—Is something wrong?”
Tests followed. Then the diagnosis. Sophie sobbed; James clenched his jaw, reassuring her. They couldn’t believe it. They were young. Healthy. How?
“—Prolonged labour. Birth trauma,” the doctor said flatly.
Days blurred into despair. James’s mother suggested care homes—*”You’ll have healthy children later. This is a life sentence.”*
James avoided Sophie’s tearful eyes but refused. “*No. Charlie stays with us.*”
The boy grew—smiling, recognising them—seeming normal. Hope lingered. Until he didn’t walk. His legs, too weak. The prognosis was stark: a wheelchair life. *Be grateful his mind’s intact.*
They fought. Physiotherapy. Massage. Exercises. Sophie quit work to care for Charlie. James’s salary vanished into treatments and mortgage payments.
One Sunday, Sophie asked him to take Charlie to the park.
“—You clean. I’ll take him,” he countered. “*Other kids run around. Parents stare. I can’t—*”
The first crack.
Later, Sophie suggested selling the flat for a house.
“—We’ll add ramps. He’ll have space. It’s best for him—*”
“—Yeah. You’re right,” James muttered, avoiding her gaze. “*But it won’t change enough. I can’t do this.*”
She let him go, panic in her eyes but no tears. He refused to picture her—alone with the bills, the decisions, the weight.
***
Seventeen years later.
After work, James browsed gifts for his father’s 65th. Finding nothing, he headed out. Ahead, a woman in a tailored green trouser suit walked briskly. Her perfume—subtle, expensive—lingered. *”What a woman,”* he hummed inwardly.
She paused, rifling through her handbag. He passed her, then stopped. *What if her face matches her figure?* He turned.
Their eyes met.
*Sophie.*
His legs locked. His heart lurched. Lately, he’d wondered about her—even lingered near their old neighbourhood, hoping for this.
She straightened, recognizing him. A flicker at her lips—not a smile.
“—Hello, Sophie,” he said.
She’d softened with age, the curves suiting her. Makeup accentuated her face; her hair, now shoulder-length, curled slightly. Only her eyes were unchanged.
“—Hello, James.”
No tremor. No hope. Just mild surprise.
“—In a hurry?” Déjà vu.
“—Not really.”
“—Fancy a coffee?” He nodded to a café.
She agreed.
Over lattes, he admired her. *”You look amazing.”*
“—The grey suits you,” she said. “*How’ve you been? Married?*”
“—Divorced. Two daughters—they call when they need money. You?*”
“—No. Just me and Charlie. He needs new trainers.”
“—Charlie… walks?”
“—Not like most. Burns through shoes, though. He’s at uni now—works remotely, writes a blog. Our breadwinner.” Pride warmed her voice.
“—I’m glad. Truly.”
“—Took work. After you left, Mum retired to help. We sold our flats, bought a house. Dad built ramps. He died three years ago.”
“—You’re incredible. I’m sorry. I—*”
“—Don’t. I forgave you long ago.”
“—Can I see him?”
She hesitated.
“—I can’t stop you. But… he hasn’t forgiven you.”
Silence.
“—If I could rewind time—*”
“—Don’t,” she cut in. “*You’d still have left. It was your choice. Your mother helped, didn’t she?*”
Her phone buzzed.
“—Charlie’s wondering where I am. I should go.”
He offered a lift. She declined.
At the door, he watched her drive away, her unfinished coffee cooling on the table.
Home, his Labrador wagged eagerly.
“—Later, mate,” James muttered, dialling his daughter.
“—Dad? Everything okay?”
“—Just wanted to chat. How’s Mum?”
“—Fine. New boyfriend. Julie’s on a school trip.”
“—Visit soon?”
“—Too busy. I’ll call.” A kiss noise. The line died.
James sighed at the dog.
“—Your owner’s a failure. Left the woman he loved. His son. You know I have a son? He won’t call. Won’t forgive me.” The dog whined.
“—Maybe it’s not too late?”
That night, he tossed and turned. The dog watched from its bed, ears twitching at each sigh. James ached with regret. Without Sophie, without Charlie, his life felt hollow. His daughters didn’t need him. Only the dog did.
*Why did I look back? Should’ve kept walking…*
For the first time, envy stabbed him—not at another man, but at the life he’d thrown away.
