**No One’s Fault, or Just the Way the Stars Aligned**
James held the restaurant door open for his wife, letting her step through first. The door closed softly behind them, muffling the thumping music and the murmur of tipsy voices. In the distance, the uneven glow of city lights shimmered, the winding path of streetlamps stretching toward it through the dark.
*”You look pale… Maybe we should get a taxi?”* asked Emily.
*”No need, we’ll be fine. Just stuffy in there, that’s all. I’ll cool off, and we’ll drive home.”* James wrapped an arm around her.
*”But you’ve had a drink…”* Emily pressed.
*”Hardly anything, and that was hours ago. It’s all worn off. Besides, the roads are empty at this hour.”*
*”Mum rang. Alfie won’t sleep without us there,”* Emily sighed. *”I’m exhausted.”*
*”Let’s go, then. Half an hour and we’ll be home.”* James dug the car keys from his jacket pocket and pressed the fob. Somewhere in the car park, their Vauxhall beeped, blinking its headlights twice.
Pulling out of the restaurant’s car park, James steered confidently toward the city. Beside him, Emily stretched her legs, weary from the evening, and leaned back—no more worrying about her hair now.
*”Tom’s wedding was nice, wasn’t it? Ours was better, though.”* James glanced at the receding restaurant lights in the rearview mirror.
*”Honestly? I barely remember ours,”* Emily murmured, closing her eyes.
*”Neither do I.”*
*”No one remembers their own wedding. Maybe that’s why they always seem better than everyone else’s.”*
*”True.”* James chuckled.
*”Mum should stay over tonight. By the time we get home, then you drive her back…”* Emily yawned.
*”Course she can stay. I’m knackered too.”*
*”I told you we should’ve taken a taxi. You never listen,”* Emily said faintly.
*”Too late now. Don’t fancy coming back for the car tomorrow.”*
Emily didn’t answer. She sat with her eyes shut, imagining the bliss of getting home—peeling off her tight shoes, stepping into slippers, showering away the evening’s tension.
Had she opened her eyes, she’d have seen James’ white-knuckled grip on the wheel, the sweat beading on his brow, his uneven breaths. But she noticed none of it.
James hadn’t admitted it, but he already regretted driving. His chest ached with every heartbeat, the pain deepening with each breath. Should he stop? No—best just get home, lie down…
The road ahead taunted him, the city’s glow never drawing closer. He pressed the accelerator—just as pain ripped through his chest. Darkness swallowed his vision. The impact shattered the quiet outskirts, but James never heard it.
The lorry driver stumbled from his cab, rushing toward the crumpled car wedged under the front wheel. The man inside was already gone. Next to him, a woman sat motionless. The door was jammed—he reached through the shattered window, fingers trembling too much to feel a pulse.
He called an ambulance and waited.
Later, they cleared him. The autopsy showed the Vauxhall’s driver had alcohol in his system and had died of a massive heart attack before the collision, sending his car careening into the wrong lane.
Still, the lorry driver visited the hospital to ask about the woman. Two surgeries down, but she needed one more—a hip replacement, or she’d never walk again. The NHS wouldn’t cover it. The surgeon suggested a private specialist in London, but the cost was steep.
***
*”Harry, finally! I found the perfect flat. Just what we wanted—fifth floor, lift, city centre. Needs work, but I talked them down. We’re seeing it tomorrow. How much have we saved? If you haven’t touched it, we’ve got enough.”* Sophie chattered excitedly as Harry washed his hands.
She blocked his path, searching his face.
*”Hold on,”* Harry nudged her aside.
*”What’s there to hold on about? It’ll go fast! I convinced them not to show anyone else. Your phone was off—”*
*”I don’t pick up when I’m driving.”* He slumped at the table. *”Just let me eat.”*
Sophie grabbed a plate, then froze. *”Changed your mind, have you? Quit your decent job to drive for pennies… Got someone else? Say something!”*
*”Don’t be daft. There’s no one. And no money.”*
*”What?”* The plate clattered. *”You spent it on her?”*
*”Enough!”* Harry snapped. *”I gave it to the hospital. For her operation.”*
*”That woman? But you weren’t even at fault! Why?”*
*”No one was at fault. Wrong place, wrong time. Her husband’s dead, she’s crippled, there’s a kid—”*
*”And what about me? Years of saving, stuck in this tiny flat. I found us a home!”* She stormed out, slamming the door.
Harry followed. She sat rigid on the sofa, arms crossed, staring at the darkening window. He touched her shoulder—she shook him off.
*”I should’ve talked to you first. But it’s my money. We’re alive. She’s not. A kid needs her.”*
*”Why you?”* Her voice cracked.
*”Because I was there.”*
*”We’ll never save that much again.”*
*”Why do we need a big place? No kids—”*
*”Now it’s my fault?”* she shrieked. *”I’d have adopted!”*
*”I’m nearly fifty, Soph. Too old for nappies.”*
She screamed, hurled things, shoved a pillow at him. *”Sleep on the sofa!”*
He lay awake for hours, replaying the crash—the empty road, the car veering into his path. The autopsy said the other driver was dead before impact. He’d quit long-haul driving after that. Taxi work paid less, but it was quieter.
At the hospital, he’d seen her—drugged, broken. The doctor said she’d never walk without the op. So he emptied their savings, asked them not to tell her.
He knew her address but couldn’t bring himself to visit. What would she want with his guilt?
Weeks passed. Sophie cooked, cleaned, but didn’t speak. Then one evening, he came home to a suitcase. He wasn’t surprised.
She’d left for an old friend—a widower. Called Harry a fool on her way out.
One Saturday in August, he drove to her building. Why? He didn’t know. Bright orange rowan berries blazed in the courtyard.
He hesitated, watching the windows, when a woman with a cane entered, scolding a boy struggling with a heavy bag.
*”Alfie, give it here—you’ll hurt yourself.”*
*”Need a hand?”* Harry stepped forward.
She startled. *”Who are you?”*
*”Harry Collins. The lorry driver.”* He took the bag.
*”I don’t want anything from you.”*
*”Just helping. Second floor?”*
She nodded stiffly.
*”Still limping? The op didn’t fix it?”*
*”Needs another. Waiting for funding.”*
*”Your lad’s a tough one.”*
Alfie scowled.
*”I know you weren’t to blame,”* she said. *”I should’ve made him call a taxi.”*
*”No one’s fault. Just the way the stars aligned.”*
At her door, Alfie found a note—the plumber had come and gone.
*”Bugger. I forgot.”* She sighed.
Harry set the bag down, ready to leave.
*”Wait.”* She bit her lip. *”The tap’s dripping. Can you look?”*
He fixed it—temporarily. *”Needs a new washer. I’ll replace it tomorrow.”*
*”Stay for tea. Or stew?”*
*”Stew’s grand. My wife’s gone—can’t cook.”*
*”Because of the crash?”*
*”No. Just left.”*
He came back the next day. Then kept coming—fixing shelves, changing bulbs. Alfie warmed up when Harry taught him chess.
One night, Harry stayed late. *”It’s a long drive home,”* she said. *”Stay.”*
Slowly, her heart thawed.
Life’s a winding road—you never know the turns ahead. But facing them together makes the journey lighter.
