“Mum, if you don’t accept my choice, I’ll leave. For good…”
Anthony stepped into the carriage of the commuter train, scanning the seats. Plenty were empty—he took one by the window. The doors hissed open now and then, letting in new passengers.
Across from him, an older couple settled in. The woman rustled through a bag, pulled out two buttery pastries, and they began to eat. The rich smell of fresh baking filled the air. Anthony politely turned away, staring out the window.
“Young man, have one,” the woman offered, holding out a pastry.
“No, thank you,” he smiled.
“Go on, take it. Nearly two hours to go yet.”
He accepted, biting into the soft, flaky dough. It tasted heavenly. The speakers crackled, a man’s voice cutting through static: *”Departing in… minutes… This train terminates at… calling at all stations except… Repeat…”*
“Love, what did he say? Which stops are we skipping?” the woman fretted, nudging her husband.
Anthony shrugged. He was riding to the end of the line—didn’t matter to him.
“I *told* you we should’ve taken the slow train, the one that stops everywhere. You never listen!” she scolded. “What now? We’ll have to get off early and wait for the next one—”
She only calmed when a man across the aisle assured them their stop was included. The bickering faded. Anthony finished his pastry, watching the blur of trees, sunlight dappling through young leaves, stations flicking past. The carriage grew stuffy; sweat trickled down his back under his army uniform.
He pictured arriving home—his mum’s joy, the shower’s sharp spray… Just to ditch this uniform, pull on jeans, a T-shirt, trainers. No more dawn roll calls. He’d sleep a full day on his old sofa, wake to golden-brown pancakes under a tea towel, left by Mum for breakfast.
*Wonder how Alice is now. A year’s not long—can’t have changed much.* His mind conjured her: a slight girl with chestnut hair and green eyes, a year younger, from the next estate. Just finishing school. He’d barely noticed her before—just another girl from the block.
The night before he left, they’d all gathered at the playground. Mark berated him for dropping out of uni to enlist. Paul backed Anthony, saying if not for his mum, he’d have joined up too. The girls sighed about the group breaking up but mostly giggled over their phones.
Then Alice—little Alice, whom they all treated like a kid—suddenly said, deadly serious: *”I’ll wait for you.”* Silence. She flushed and bolted.
“Tony’s got himself a sweetheart!” Paul crowed, elbowing him.
Anthony shoved him playfully. “Let her wait. I’ll marry her when I’m back.”
He’d never told anyone the real reason he’d left—not even Paul or Mark. He’d started uni to please his dad. Then, come spring, the man walked out. Another woman. A baby on the way. His world splintered. Army recruitment was his rebellion.
Mum had wept. He promised he’d figure things out after his service—maybe return to studies, part-time.
Now, a year later, he was nearly home. Thoughts of revenge had dulled. He missed his mum, his estate, his mates. He’d done the right thing. Life stretched ahead.
At the next stop, the couple left. A young pair took their place, holding hands, silent. Anthony’s mind circled back to Alice. That night, her words, his reply—what had felt like a joke now weighed on him.
The train slowed. He stepped onto the platform, strode toward the underpass. As a kid, he’d loved the echo of his footsteps, sounding like a crowd. His dad had laughed: *”Just the walls, son.”*
Emerging onto the station square, he walked the rest. Needed the air, the motion. A neighbour spotted him outside the flats.
“Anthony! Your mum’ll be chuffed—”
He skipped the lift, took the stairs three at a time. Rang the bell. Only then did it hit him—she might be out. He hadn’t called.
The latch clicked. The door swung open. Mum gasped, flinging her arms around him—holding him, stepping back to *look* at him, as if checking he was real. Fussed about no warning, hurried to the kitchen.
While she cooked, he showered. She’d left a towel and fresh clothes on the washer.
The jeans sat tight, the T-shirt short.
“You’ve *grown*!” Mum laughed when he entered the kitchen. “Right, I’ll pop to the shops after dinner—”
“Don’t bother,” he said, sitting.
“You can’t go about like that. No girl’ll glance twice.”
As he ate, she updated him.
“Paul’s had an accident. Months in hospital. Wheelchair now—won’t walk again. Drunk, took his dad’s car. Thank God he was alone. If he’d enlisted with you…” She sighed. “Haven’t seen Mark in ages. Erica’s married—”
*Alice*, he wanted to ask. But Mum avoided the name, deliberate.
She left for the shops. He wandered the flat, relearning its edges.
When she returned, he dressed—new shirt, old trainers—and went to Paul’s. His mum answered. Paul sat stiff in his chair, unsmiling. The conversation stalled.
“Seen Mark?” Anthony asked, grasping for words.
“Hardly. Came by hospital twice.” Paul’s stare was wary, expectant.
Anthony left, promising to return.
Mark, though, hugged him tight. Anthony cut to it: “What’s between you two? The crash?”
“Crash?” Mark scoffed. “Not my place to say.”
“Say *what*? What happened?”
“Figure it out.” Mark clapped his shoulder. “What’s your plan? Work? Uni?”
“Dunno. Both, maybe.”
Too late to visit Alice now. He went home, mind churning.
Morning. Mum left for work. He feigned sleep until the door clicked shut. The kettle still warm, pancakes under a cloth—just as he’d dreamed.
Breakfast done, he headed to Alice’s flat. Wanted her alone.
Heart pounding, he rang the bell. Silence. Again. Just as he turned—the lock snicked.
There she was. Just as he remembered.
“You said you’d wait. I’m back,” he smiled.
For a second, joy lit her eyes—then died. She stepped back. The floral dressing gown couldn’t hide the curve of her belly.
“Come in,” she murmured.
“You’re married?” he asked, toeing off his trainers.
“No.”
“No?”
“I didn’t marry.”
“Then who—?”
“Paul.”
It took a second to click.
“He was already—”
“The crash came after. Two days. I’ll put the kettle on.” She turned to the kitchen. He followed.
“Uni going alright?”
She shook her head. “Dropped out. Hard with a baby.”
“Paul knows?”
“Told him at hospital.”
“Did he force you?” Anthony bit out.
“No… I don’t… We met at the estate. Him and Mark were already pissed. Paul invited me to his birthday. Said girls were coming. No one else showed. I had one glass of champagne—next thing I’m dizzy. Might’ve spiked it. Bragged about pills from the club.”
“His parents wanted us to wed, but then the crash… I didn’t *want* him. Tried to end it, but the doctors said no—could’ve wrecked my chances after.” Her hands shook pouring tea. “I didn’t wait. Sorry.”
Anthony couldn’t stay. He bolted—past her, down the stairs, across the estate, hammering Paul’s door.
Paul’s mum answered, fearful. Inside, Paul backed his chair against the sill.
“You knew?” Anthony gritted.
“If I could stand, I’d knock you out,” Paul muttered.
“Tony, don’t!” His mum stepped between them. “He’s suffered enough—”
“What did you give her?” Anthony snarled.
“Nothing! We were out of it—some pills, from the club… I barely remember—”
“You *don’t remember*?” Anthony loomed over him.
“It just *happened*!” Paul shrieked.
Anthony’s fist flew before he knew it. Bone crunched. Blood splattered. Paul’s mum screamed.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Anthony rasped, stepping back. His knuckles throbbed.
Home. Face in the sofa cushions. Rage like a storm.
When it dulled, he called Mark. No hello. Just: *”Why didn’t you stop it?”*
“I left early. Mum called—dad was ill. I didn’t know he’d—He held Alice’s hand tighter as they left the registry office, his daughter giggling in his arms, and for the first time in years, the future felt like home.
