I MISSED MY CHANCE
They say finding love at the workplace isn’t the best idea. But I wasn’t looking for it. Love found me. Not in the form of a charming colleague with a coffee cup and tie, but as a silent man in a black Mazda waiting in line for petrol. I used to work at the petrol station.
At first, he just watched me quietly. Then he began to smile. Eventually, it seemed like he learned my schedule and only came when I was on shift. My name was Sarah, and I was 33. A platinum blonde with a bold and straightforward nature, honed in a male-dominated environment. And him? He was different. At 42, his eyes were the blue of a February sky, shoulders broad enough to knock down walls. And a smile… warm, calm, with a touch of boyishness.
His name was Michael. He lived in a house near the petrol station with his son and a dog named Rocky. The son was from a previous marriage, as his wife had left them both. Michael didn’t work. He was a landlord, receiving income from four apartments inherited from his grandmother, living life as he pleased, traveling and enjoying leisure.
One day, he pulled up to the pump and said, “Come on, let me show you a city you’ll fall in love with.” Then came another city. And another one. We sipped beer in half-empty pubs, visited seaside hotels off-season, spent nights by the ocean, wandered markets in Brighton and York, and listened to jazz in London.
I fell head over heels. I lost myself in him. Me, who always valued independence and didn’t believe in labels, was living with him after just three months. We didn’t formalize anything; we were simply together.
Initially, I talked about having a baby. I dreamed about it—imagining us as a family of three: him, me, and the little one. But Michael was firm. He declared he’d already “done his time” as a father and wouldn’t do it again. Besides, children limit freedom.
“You can’t just fly to Edinburgh for the weekend with a baby bump, Sarah, or later with a pram. That wouldn’t be living, but a prison.” He said it so calmly and confidently that under his spell, I began to fear having a child too.
Years passed. I became the peroxide blonde servant of his carefree life. Cooked meals, did the ironing, bought his favorite cheeses, laughed in the right places, while he watched more football, leisurely flipped through the morning paper, and called me “the one.”
His son grew up. Initially, he despised me. Then he grew curious. And finally, he brought home a girl—just like I was six years before. Young, vibrant, blonde. She slept over, laughed at my jokes, and called me “Little Sarah.”
I watched her and understood everything. I felt the urge to shout, “Run! Don’t waste your life like I did! Don’t disappear, don’t lose your voice, don’t abandon your dreams. You can still change everything!”
And me? I no longer believe. I’m 39 now. I have no children. I quit my job, lost my friends, and lost my parents. It’s just me, Michael, Rocky, and a rusting relationship that became more like a habit long ago.
He still doesn’t work, still collects rent from his apartments, still drinks beer every evening. And I still set a plate with salad in front of him, waiting. Waiting to feel that not all is lost. But it’s a delusion.
Sometimes at night, while he sleeps, I step onto the balcony and gaze at the stars. And it feels like if I wished hard enough, everything could change. But it’s too late. Far too late.
