**The Suitcase on Wheels**
“Mum, I’m a grown-up now. Can’t I just do something I want for once?” huffed Emily.
They’d been arguing for days, ever since Emily announced she wanted to spend a week in Brighton with her boyfriend.
“What about uni? Your exams are coming up.”
“I’ll catch up! I’m doing fine. Please, Mum,” Emily whined.
“You hardly know him! What then?” Margaret was running out of ways to talk her daughter out of it.
“If you don’t let me go, I’ll run away and never come back!” Emily flopped onto the sofa, hugged a cushion to her stomach, and turned toward the window.
A pang of fear wormed its way into Margaret’s heart. Her daughter—the centre of her world, the only family she had left. She couldn’t lose her.
“Mum, you always played it safe, and look where it got you. Do you want that for me?” Emily’s voice wobbled dangerously.
“Love, you’ve got your whole life ahead—no need to rush,” Margaret murmured, knowing full well her daughter was too smitten to listen.
Emily buried her face in the cushion and sobbed.
*Am I really my own child’s enemy? Times have changed. Everything moves so fast. Maybe if I’d been braver when I was younger, figured things out early, realised my ex wasn’t husband material… maybe life would’ve been different.* Margaret sighed.
“Fine. Go. But call me every day. I can’t spare much—you know I’m saving for the house.”
Emily flung the cushion aside, dashed over, and hugged her tightly.
“Thanks, Mum! Don’t worry about money—Oliver’s got it covered. I’ll call you loads. It’ll all be fine!” she chirped.
*Sure, easy for you to say. Wait till you have your own daughter—then we’ll see how “fine” you feel.* Margaret bit her tongue. No point arguing with love-blind logic.
Emily rushed off and returned minutes later with a suitcase.
“You packed already? You really would’ve run off?” The realisation stung.
“I knew you’d say yes. I know you. I’ll call Oliver now—” She grabbed her phone but paused. “You should go somewhere too. Auntie Margaret’s, maybe? What’ll you do alone all week?”
“I’ll manage. Just… be careful. You know what I mean,” Margaret muttered, feeling gloom settle over her.
“Mum, I’m not a child. I *know.*” Emily dialled Oliver’s number.
Margaret’s chest tightened. From the conversation, she gathered Emily was leaving *now*.
“Right, Mum, the taxi’s waiting downstairs.” Emily wheeled her suitcase toward the door.
Margaret hurried after her.
“Don’t bother coming down. I’ll call when we’re on the train. Back in a week.” Emily pecked her cheek and flitted out, oblivious to the tears in her mother’s eyes.
*That’s it, then. All grown up. Doesn’t need me. Wouldn’t even let me wave her off.* Margaret slumped onto the sofa, the same spot Emily had occupied minutes ago. Tears welled up. *Empty. Quiet. I’ll go mad here. Just gotta get used to it. Letting go is every mother’s fate.*
She sat like that for ages, too numb to move. *Maybe I should go somewhere too. The seaside, maybe. Not summer anymore, but still warmer than here.* She headed to Emily’s room, booted up the laptop, and searched for flights.
A cheap ticket popped up—Brighton, tomorrow morning. Return in five days. Before she could second-guess, she booked it. Who cared about penny-pinching? Sitting around waiting for calls would make the week crawl.
Packing distracted her from worrying. Emily called in the evening, breathlessly gushing about the train station, the journey, everything being perfect—then hung up mid-laugh.
Margaret couldn’t sleep. *Doesn’t matter. I’ll nap on the plane.* She gave up, hailed a taxi, threw on her autumn coat, and headed to Heathrow.
Despite the early hour, the airport buzzed like an agitated hive. People rushed, hugged, shouted into phones. She passed a couple locked in a tearful embrace. A girl clung to her boyfriend, voice hollow:
“You’ll come back? Promise? I love you…” She buried her face in his chest as he murmured into her hair. Margaret looked away—too intimate, too raw.
After check-in, she sat waiting, thinking of Emily. *Silly girls, rushing headlong, terrified of missing out, diving into love like it’s a swimming pool. How many heartbreaks, confessions, disappointments await them? Enough tears to drown in.*
She’d done the same once. Leapt without looking. And where had it landed her? A husband who bolted at fatherhood. A few flings, but never marriage—too busy raising Emily. Now, too late for changes. And here she was, flying south alone. *Why? Where to?* Better than losing her mind waiting for a call.
A man brushed past, his wheeled suitcase clipping her ankle.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, sitting nearby, pulling out a magazine.
*Probably meeting a mistress,* Margaret thought spitefully.
Boarding was called. He handed his ticket over first. No mistress in sight. He hesitated, and Margaret stumbled into his suitcase again, cursing internally. By some cosmic joke, their seats were across the aisle. She ignored him, eventually dozing off.
After landing, they simultaneously stood, jostling while putting on coats. He was *really* grating on her now.
She grabbed a taxi to a cheap hotel, dumped her bags, and headed straight to the pier. The sun warmed her coat—too warm. She smiled, breathing in the sea air. Emily texted: safe arrival, all good. Relief. Hunger, even—she’d barely eaten in days.
“Mind if I join you?”
The plane man slid into her café seat uninvited.
“Keep bumping into each other, don’t we? May as well introduce myself.” He extended a hand. “Gary.”
“Margaret.” She didn’t take it.
“Lovely name. Suits you.”
She shrugged. Handsome, slightly older, smiling openly.
“Let’s skip formalities. Here on holiday?” he asked.
“You? Work?” she countered.
“Spot on. Remote work—I’m a writer. Freelancer, really. Fancied a seaside stint.”
*Sure, “writer.” Romantic bait for lonely women like me. Probably an accountant dodging his wife.*
He read her scepticism.
“Honest. Published a book, short stories online. Pays decently.”
“People actually read them?”
“Shockingly, yes. Well enough to afford this.”
They strolled the pier after coffee, him chatting about work, her liking him more by the minute. He walked her back but didn’t invite himself up.
“I’ve got deadlines; you’ve got relaxing to do.”
Next morning, he waited in the lobby. More walks, dinner, wine. She laughed freely, lighter than she’d felt in years.
Sunlight woke her, disoriented. Running water—the bathroom. She scrambled up, mortified. *Lecturing Emily, then this!* Forty-one wasn’t *old*, but still—
“Morning.” Gary emerged, clean-shaven, grinning. “Coffee, then I’ll walk you back. See you tonight?”
She couldn’t remember feeling this happy. Even Emily slipped her mind—until guilt flooded her cheeks. Gary mistook it for bashfulness and kissed her.
Five days vanished. Now, at the airport, he squeezed her hand.
“Stay?”
“My daughter’s back tomorrow,” she said softly.
“Take leave. Come back.”
“Come with *me* instead. You work remotely anyway.”
She didn’t want to go. These days had been magical. But she swallowed the lump in her throat. No point asking about a wife—let it end sweetly.
The memory of the sobbing girl at Heathrow echoed. *”You’ll come back?”* Now *she* felt it.
She walked to check-in. He didn’t follow. She didn’t look back.
On the plane, she cried. Aching heart, hollow chest.
Home. Emily’s shoes in the hallway. Margaret rushed in.
“You’re back early! What happened?”
Emily looked up, eyes red. “You were right. I didn’t know him.”
“What did he *do*?”
“Nothing. We just… weren’t right.”
“Oh, love.” Margaret hugged her. “Better now than later. It’ll all work out.”
Over tea, grey November drizzle speckled the window.
“You look radiant,” Emily said. “Wish I’d gone with you.”
“New Year’s soon. Fancy visiting Aunt Margaret?”
“What about the house fund?”
“Sod the house. It’ll wait.”
“Seriously?” Emily brightened. “We’d betterMargaret’s phone buzzed, and when she saw Gary’s name flash across the screen, her heart leapt—maybe fate had one more surprise in store.
