Why did I even turn around? Should’ve just walked past…
When we make decisions, we convince ourselves they’re the right ones. We find justifications. At first, we’re haunted by doubts, fearing karma, some cosmic payback for what we’ve done. But when nothing happens, we relax, grow firmer in our belief, and move on—trying not to dwell, not to remember.
Then, one day, the reckoning comes. Or maybe it’s just long-overdue regret…
They met in the early 2000s. Nigel walked up to the bus stop, waiting for the next ride. A girl stood nearby—ordinary, just like any other. But something thudded in his chest. *”The bus will come, she’ll leave, and I’ll never see her again.”* He glanced over his shoulder. A double-decker idled at the traffic light. His pulse kicked up, nudging him forward. Before he could second-guess it, he approached her.
“Hi. Which bus are you waiting for?”
She looked at him, searching for recognition while he stared into her eyes—knowing, abruptly, he’d never forget them, never sleep easily again.
“I’m Nigel. You’re not waiting for the 204, are you?”
“No,” she finally smiled. “The 30.”
He exhaled in relief. No sign of the bus yet—still time.
“You live in Southwick?” he pressed.
“No, just visiting my gran.”
“Are you in a hurry?” he asked, bracing himself.
“Not really. Why?” Curiosity flickered in her gaze.
His voice brightened before he could stop it.
“Walk with me to the next stop?”
She hesitated a second, then grinned and nodded.
His heart hammered, wild and giddy. They walked together—past one stop, then another, all the way to her gran’s neighbourhood, neither noticing the distance or the time. By the time Emily paused outside her gran’s terraced house, they’d shared more than strangers should—like old friends reuniting. They exchanged numbers before parting, neither doubting they’d found something fateful.
For a year, they lived between meetings until they married. First, they stayed with Emily’s gran, then—after graduation, jobs, and a mortgage—they bought a two-bed flat. *For the future.*
When Emily told him she was pregnant, Nigel’s heart lurched the way it had that first day, as if yelling, *”Well, get moving, Dad!”* He broke into a helpless smile. *A father.* Unexpected. Terrifying. Wonderful.
Life shifted gears. Suddenly, every conversation was about cribs, prams, names. Nigel stopped mothers in the street, quizzing them about buggies and brands. Friends handed down babygros and sleepsuits while Nigel and Emily counted the days, impatient for their firstborn.
Then came a blue-eyed boy. By the time Emily returned from hospital, the nursery held a crib with padded rails, stacks of tiny clothes, a sleek pram ready for long walks. Nigel carried their son over the threshold—a bundle of cries and new beginnings, the flat alive with cooing relatives.
At the first check-up, the paediatrician’s frown made Emily’s voice waver.
“Is something wrong?”
Tests followed. Then the diagnosis. Emily sobbed while Nigel clenched his jaw and tried to comfort her. *How?* They were young, healthy. This couldn’t be real.
“Difficult labour. Birth trauma,” the doctor said flatly.
Days blurred into despair, then grim acceptance. Nigel’s mother suggested a care home—*”You’ll have other children. Don’t chain yourselves to this.”*
Nigel couldn’t meet Emily’s tearful stare, but his voice was steel. *”We’re keeping Henry.”*
The boy grew. Smiled. Seemed normal. Hope flickered—maybe the doctors were wrong. But when other toddlers took their first steps, Henry didn’t. No guarantees he ever would. *”Be thankful his mind’s intact.”*
The battle began: physio, exercises, massage. Emily never returned to work. Nigel’s salary vanished into medical bills and mortgage payments. His parents helped where they could.
One Sunday, Emily asked him to take Henry to the park.
“Let me tidy. You go,” he said.
Parents stared at Henry’s buggy—too big for a boy his age. Nigel couldn’t bear their pity.
That was the first crack. More followed.
They sold the flat for a bungalow—*”Ramps, wider doors. It’s better for him.”*
Nigel nodded, avoiding her eyes. “But it won’t change enough. I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
Emily let him go. Her eyes were panicked but dry. He tried not to picture her alone—bills, decisions, Henry’s care.
***
Seventeen years later.
After work, Nigel stopped for his father’s birthday gift. Nothing caught his eye. As he left, a woman in a green trouser suit walked ahead. Her figure was striking. The faintest trace of perfume lingered. *”God, she’s lovely.”* He hummed an old tune under his breath.
She paused, rummaging in her handbag. He passed her—then stopped. *What if her face matches the rest?*
She glanced up.
He’d know her anywhere.
His legs locked; his ribs ached like that first day. Lately, he’d thought of her often. Walked past their old street, hoping for a glimpse.
Emily straightened. She recognized him too. Her lips twitched—no smile.
“Hello, Emily,” he said.
She’d filled out, beautifully. Makeup accentuated her features; her hair curled at her shoulders. Only her eyes hadn’t changed.
“Hi, Nigel.”
No spark. No tremor. Just polite surprise. He’d gotten soft around the middle, greyer. But his heart pounded like a boy’s.
“In a hurry?” Déjà vu.
“Not really.”
“Fancy a coffee?” He nodded toward a café.
She agreed.
At the table, he couldn’t stop staring. *”God, she’s stunning.”*
“Suits you,” she said. “The grey.”
His smile faltered. “How’ve you been? Married?”
“Divorced. Two girls—live with their mum. They call when they need money.” He cleared his throat. “You?”
“No. Just popped in to get Henry some trainers.”
“Henry… walks?”
“Not like most. Burns through shoes, though.” Her eyes warmed. “He just graduated. Works from home—coding. Runs a blog. Earns more than me now.”
Nigel blinked. “I’m glad.”
“It wasn’t easy. When you left, Mum retired to help. We sold our flats, bought the bungalow. Dad fixed it up for Henry.” Her voice tightened. “He died three years ago. Mum lives with us.”
“You’re incredible. I’m sorry. I ran. Felt like life was passing me by—”
“Don’t.” She cut him off. “You’d have left anyway. Your mum helped, didn’t she?”
He winced. “Can I see him?”
She studied him. “I won’t stop you. But he hasn’t forgiven you.”
A phone chimed—muffled.
“Henry,” she said, answering. “Lost me? Just shopping. Be home soon.”
She stood. “I should go.”
“Need a lift?”
“No.” She strode off.
He watched her go—his chest hollow. Her half-finished coffee sat abandoned.
Then he bolted outside—just in time to see her car vanish.
At home, his Labrador wagged, nosing his hand.
“Hold on,” Nigel muttered, sinking onto the sofa. The dog watched, expectant.
He dialled.
“Hi, Dad,” his eldest answered.
“Just checking in. Mum alright?”
“She’s fine. Seeing someone. Julie’s on a school trip.”
“Come round sometime?”
“Can’t. Too busy. I’ll call.” A smack of a kiss, then silence.
“They’ve no time,” he told the dog. “Your owner’s a mess. Left the woman he loved. His son. Bet you didn’t know I had a son. He won’t visit. Won’t call.” He scrubbed his face. “She’s beautiful now. Think there’s still a chance?”
The Labrador whined.
“Yeah. Walk time.”
That night, Nigel twisted in bed, replaying his life. The dog lifted its head, ears pricked—clueless how to help.
Regret festered. Without Emily, without Henry, his life had meant nothing. His daughters didn’t need him. No one did—except the damn dog.
*Why did I turn around? Should’ve walked past…*
And for the first time, jealousy pricked his heart. *Look at her now…*
