The Suitcase on Wheels
“Mum, I’m grown up now. Can’t I just do what I want for once?” Emily huffed.
They’d been arguing for days ever since she announced she wanted to go to Brighton for a week with her boyfriend.
“What about uni? Your exams are coming up.”
“I’ll catch up. I always do. Please, Mum,” Emily whined.
“You barely know him. What happens after?” Linda had run out of words to dissuade her.
“If you don’t let me, I’ll run away and never come back,” Emily snapped, flopping onto the sofa, clutching a cushion to her chest, and turning toward the window.
A thorn of worry dug into Linda’s heart. What if she really did leave? Emily was her world, her only family. Losing her wasn’t an option.
“Mum, you always played it safe, and now you’re alone. Want the same for me?” Emily’s voice cracked with frustration.
“Love, you’ve got your whole life ahead. Don’t rush…” But Linda knew—her daughter was in love and deaf to reason.
Emily buried her face in the cushion and sobbed.
*Am I really my child’s enemy? Times are different now. Everything moves fast. Maybe if I’d been braver, figured things out sooner, seen my ex for what he was…* Linda sighed.
“Fine. Go. But call me every day. I can’t give you much—still saving for the house.”
Emily tossed the cushion aside and flung her arms around Linda.
“Thank you! Don’t worry about money. Jack’s got it covered. I’ll call loads. Everything’ll be fine!” she chirped.
*Easy for you to say. Wait till you have a daughter.* Linda bit her tongue.
Emily dashed to her room and returned with a suitcase.
“You packed already? Were you really going to leave?” The thought twisted like a knife.
“I knew you’d say yes. I’ll ring Jack now—” She grabbed her phone but stopped, turning back. “You should go somewhere too. Aunt Maggie’s, maybe. What’ll you do here alone? It’s your holiday.”
“I’ll manage. Just… be careful. You know what I mean.” Linda’s mood was dark enough to howl at the moon.
“Mum, I’m not a kid.” Emily dialled, and Linda’s heart lurched. From the chatter, they were leaving now.
“Taxi’s waiting downstairs.” Emily wheeled her suitcase to the door. Linda rushed after her.
“Don’t walk me out. I’ll call when we’re on the train. Back in a week.” A quick kiss on the cheek, and she was gone, not seeing Linda’s tears.
*That’s it, then. All grown up. Doesn’t need me.* Linda stumbled to the kitchen, peering down at the cab. A lanky lad paced beside it. *Seems decent. Maybe it’ll be fine. Can’t protect her forever.*
She watched the taxi vanish, then slumped onto the sofa Emily had just vacated. Tears welled. *Alone. Quiet. Empty. I’ll go mad here. But it’s the way of things—mothers must let go.*
Time crawled. *Maybe I should get away too. The coast, perhaps. Off-season, but still warmer.* She booted up Emily’s laptop and searched for tickets.
A cheap flight to Cornwall left tomorrow. Linda booked it without thinking—five days away. Enough of pinching pennies. Waiting for calls would stretch the week into eternity.
Packing distracted her. Emily rang that evening, breathless. “At the station, train’s coming, all good—” A laugh, then silence.
Sleep wouldn’t come. *I’ll nap on the plane.* She called a taxi at dawn, tugged on her autumn coat, and left.
Gatwick buzzed like a stirred hive. Couples clung to each other, voices thick with promises and tears. A girl’s plea—*”You’ll come back? Promise?”*—made Linda turn away. Too raw.
Boarding pass in hand, she waited. *Foolish girls, hurling themselves into love. How many heartbreaks lie ahead?*
She’d done the same once. Rushed in. And where was she now? A single mum, too afraid to risk love again. And here she was, fleeing to the coast. Why? To escape the silence.
A man’s wheeled suitcase clipped her shin.
“Sorry.” He wandered off, sat, flipped open a magazine.
*Probably meeting some mistress.* The thought was bitter.
They boarded. His seat was across the aisle. She ignored him, then slept.
Disembarking, they jostled dressing. He grated on her nerves.
At the hotel, she dumped her bag and headed to the seafront. The sun burned; she shrugged off her coat. Emily texted—*All fine.* Relief unknotted her stomach.
“Mind if I join you?” The man from the plane sat opposite. “We keep crossing paths. Maybe we should meet properly?” He offered a hand. “Mark.”
“Linda.” She didn’t take it.
“Lovely name. Suits you.”
She shrugged. Handsome, a tad older, smile easy.
“Let’s skip formalities. Here to relax?”
“You? Working?”
“Remote work. I write. Freelance bits too. Fancied a seaside stint.”
*Writer. Romantic line for lonely women. Probably some desk jockey playing hooky.* His smirk said he caught her doubt.
“Seriously. Published a book. Ads pay the bills.”
“People read you?”
“Enough to afford this.”
They walked the promenade. He talked books; she thawed. At her hotel, he left politely.
Next morning, he waited in the lobby. They strolled, dined, shared wine. Laughter came easily.
She woke disoriented. The shower ran. *Bloody hell. Lecturing Emily, then this.* She dressed fast.
Mark emerged, freshly shaved. “Coffee? I’ll walk you after. Evening again?”
She couldn’t recall feeling this light. Even Emily slipped her mind—until guilt flushed her cheeks. Mark kissed her, misreading her blush.
Five days vanished. At the airport, he gripped her hands.
“Stay?”
“Emily’s back tomorrow. Work.”
“Call in sick. Come back.”
“Or you come with me?”
His silence answered. She walked away, not looking back.
On the plane, she wept.
Home again, Emily’s shoes lay in the hall. Linda rushed in.
“You’re back early! What happened?”
“You were right. We’re nothing alike.” Emily’s voice cracked.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No. I just… knew.”
“Oh, love.” Linda held her. “Better now than later.”
Over tea, Emily eyed her. “You look radiant. Wish I’d gone with you.”
“New Year’s at Aunt Maggie’s?”
“But the money?”
“Sod the savings. We’ll manage.”
“Really?” Emily perked up. “I’ll book now—”
Linda barely recognised herself. Cautious all her life, now reckless. *Youth doesn’t own folly.*
Nights were hardest. Then, a week later, her phone rang. Unknown number.
“Linda?” Mark’s voice buckled her knees.
She’d deleted his number mid-flight.
“Couldn’t forget you. I need to see you.”
“What about your wife?”
“Divorced. Three years. She hated me working remotely. Give me your address.”
“Where are you?”
“Heathrow.”
She told him, then flurried about—tidying, primping.
*Like a schoolgirl.* At the door, footsteps climbed the stairs.
Maybe fate exists. Maybe it rolls in on suitcase wheels.
