Emily graduated from teacher training college with top honors, dreaming of university. Yet fate had other plans. Her father suffered a severe car crash and spent months in hospital. When he was discharged, her mother took leave to care for him at home while he adjusted to life in a wheelchair.
Their town had no university—she’d have to move to the nearest city. Emily decided to wait a year. She couldn’t abandon her parents in such a difficult time. Instead, she took a teaching job at the local school.
Doctors had been hopeful. With therapy, massage, and medication, her father might walk again one day. Her mother sold their holiday caravan to pay for physiotherapy and prescriptions. But he never rose from that wheelchair.
“Enough. Stop wasting money. It won’t change anything,” he snapped one evening.
His temper soured—petty, suspicious, nitpicking. Her mother bore the worst of it. If he called, she had to drop everything and rush to him. Usually, he just wanted water, or to ask some trivial question, or simply to talk—while dinner burned on the stove.
“Jack, you could wheel yourself to the kitchen. Now the roast’s ruined,” her mother sighed.
“My life’s ruined, and you’re worried about dinner? Easy for you—you’ve got two good legs. Is it so hard to fetch me a glass?” he’d snarl.
Sometimes, in a rage, he’d hurl a plate or cup at her. Worse, he began demanding whiskey. Drunk, he’d lash out at her as if she’d caused the crash.
“Dad, don’t drink—it won’t help. Try chess, or reading,” Emily pleaded.
“What do you know? Taking my last joy? Books are rubbish—you read them. Life doesn’t work like that. I’m useless now,” he’d mutter.
“Mum, stop buying him whiskey,” Emily begged.
“If I don’t, he screams. He’s suffering…”
“He’s meant to be doing exercises! The doctors said he could walk again. He just won’t try. He enjoys tormenting us,” Emily fumed.
She pitied him, but life was hard for them too. One evening, exhausted from school, her throat raw, Emily just wanted to rest. But her father kept calling her. Finally, she snapped.
“Enough. I’m shattered. You’ve got wheels—go to the kitchen yourself. You’re not the only one like this. Hundreds live this way, even compete in the Paralympics. Yet you can’t manage a few feet? Go on, try. I’ve got lessons to prepare.” She stormed off.
She heard the wheelchair’s squeak, the clink of a glass in the kitchen, the slow roll past her door—pausing. She braced for the door to slam open, for yelling. But the wheels moved on. After that, he grew more self-sufficient.
On warm days, she left the balcony door open. He’d sit there—”getting fresh air.” The narrow frame and step kept him from going further. They couldn’t afford to widen the doors.
“Put me in a care home,” he’d slur after drinking.
“Don’t say that! You’re alive—that’s what matters,” her mother soothed.
“You’ll tire of cleaning up after me. Pity’s no way to live. Why keep a cripple? You’re still young…”
So life trudged on. A year slipped by, and rainy autumn returned. One afternoon, Emily left school just as a cold downpour began. She huddled under the bus shelter’s glass roof, but spray from passing cars soaked her anyway. She stood there, shivering like a drenched sparrow.
A lorry pulled up. A young man hopped out, holding his jacket over his head, and dashed to her.
“Hop in—I’ll drive you home.”
Her toes numb, Emily ducked under his oil-and-diesel-scented jacket. The cab was warm and dry.
“Michael,” he said.
“Emily.”
“Emily, then. Where to?”
She gave her address. As they drove, Michael explained why he’d become a lorry driver.
“Just Mum and me growing up. Had to support her. A mate got me into his garage. After army service, I got my HGV license. Pays well, plus side jobs—moving furniture, hauling gear. Need a lift? Just ring. At your service.” Just like that, he’d slipped into casual familiarity.
“You at uni or working?” he asked.
“Teaching, at the primary school.”
“Nice,” he nodded. “I’ll swing by, pick you up after. All the kids’ll envy you—big rig like this?” He grinned when she laughed. “What? No one’s got a lorry this size.”
He was easy company. What if she did need help someday? She gave him her number. That evening, he called, asking her to the cinema.
“Sorry, can’t. Dad’s in a wheelchair.”
“What if I come to you?”
“Why?”
“Want to see you. Fancy you,” he said bluntly.
“You might not be my type. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Why? Not handsome enough? Ashamed of a trucker?” he snapped.
“Sorry—didn’t mean to offend. Fine, I’ll come out,” she said, hanging up quickly.
The next day, a honk drew her to the window. Michael’s lorry idled below.
“Making a scene! Is that your beau?” her mother guessed.
“He’s not a beau. Just a friend. Can I pop out?”
“Go on, before the neighbours complain.”
He came almost daily now, sometimes collecting her after school. They’d sit in the cab, sipping tea or coffee from his Thermos, eating sandwiches his mother had packed.
“Look at him, keen as mustard. Quite the catch,” her mother remarked one evening as the lorry pulled away.
“He’s not a catch.”
“Why not? Youth flies. Your mates are all marrying. Planning to stay single till retirement? He’s not just passing time.”
“Mum, I’ve got marking. Too busy,” Emily lied, escaping to her room.
Michael had broached marriage a few times, but Emily stalled him. Her heart didn’t race when she saw him. She hated how he fixated on money.
“Don’t fret—I’ve saved for the wedding. Autumn’s busy—log deliveries, harvest hauls. You won’t want for anything, Em,” he’d say, squeezing her in the cramped cab. “Upgrading to a posh car by winter.”
No flowers (“waste of cash”), no cafés (“Thermos tea’s just as good”). When his mother visited her sister, he’d bring Emily to his flat. Sex was utilitarian. Rare, too—she invented excuses to avoid it.
She didn’t love him. But where else would she meet someone? Michael was here, steady, sober. Her mother nudged her. So Emily said yes—but made him wait till summer.
Winter usually dragged, but this one melted into spring. After the May bank holiday, Michael insisted on registrar forms. He’d handle everything—she just needed a dress and to show up.
One evening, hurrying home, Emily collided with a man in the dim stairwell. Mumbling an apology, she moved past.
“Emily?!”
She turned, squinting.
“Paul! Didn’t recognise you?”
“Paul?! You’re here?”
The scrawny boy from childhood summers was gone—replaced by a tall, broad-shouldered man. His parents used to bring him to his gran’s from busy London. They’d been next-door neighbours. She’d visit for potato pancakes and courgette fritters.
They’d sworn at age seven to stay together always, not just summers. When his parents fetched him, they’d part in tears. After, she’d count days till Christmas, then till June.
As teens, he stopped visiting. Only once, for his gran’s birthday, had they met—awkward, tongue-tied shadows of their childhood selves.
***
“I’m on leave—Gran’s seventy-fifth. You’re gorgeous now,” Paul said, looking her over.
“You’ve changed too. I didn’t know you. Honestly.” Her pulse hammered. His gaze warmed her chest.
“Working or studying?”
“Teaching. Dad’s in a wheelchair since the crash…”
“Gran mentioned. No chance he’ll walk?”
“Could, if he tried. But he drinks instead,” she admitted, flushing.
“And you?”
“Getting married,” she blurted, then reddened.
“Who’s the lucky man?”
“Mum’s waiting—must dash,” she said, rushing upstairs, feeling his eyes on her back.
Now Michael’s honking embarrassed her. She’d fume climbing into his cab, imagining Paul watching.
“Saw you with Paul again. Still marrying?” her mother probed once.
“Of course. We’re just old friends,” Emily lied, avoiding her gaze.
But Paul thrilled herWith a trembling breath, Emily stepped away from Michael’s lorry for the last time, watching as it disappeared down the rain-slicked road, her heart lighter than it had been in years.
