The day hadnt gone well.
Oliver knew these things happenedbad days, that isbut it didnt make it any less tiresome. He found himself brooding over his life. What had he actually achieved? Nearing forty, hed finished school, done his stint in college, even served in the military. He had a flat in London, a wife, two kids, and a beat-up car that wheezed its way to their ridiculous little cottage in the Cotswolds every weekend.
Lazing about with a pint wasnt his styleno, the cottage demanded endless labour. Digging flower beds, pulling weeds, lugging compost in a wheelbarrow, mowing the lawn. The roof sagged, the fence wobbled, and the whole place seemed to be in a state of perpetual decay.
The tram rattled like an old biscuit tin, swaying along its route. Oliver sat by the window, watching the streetlights flicker to life in the dusk, forming a glowing chain in the darkness. He thought about his life.
On paper, it was all perfectly normalfamily, job, cottage, paycheque, kids, parents, in-laws. Football on Sundays, a pint after a roast dinner. Birthdays and holidays spent with relatives. Everything exactly as it should be.
But suddenly, it all felt dull. Safe. Predictable. Hed always been the steady one, the reliable onethe one who never stepped off the path laid out for him. What if he could start over?
Out of nowhere, he thought of Emily, his first love. Holding hands, whispering dreams, that first dizzying kiss His throat tightened, and he wiped his eyes.
It couldve been so different.
Emilybright, mischievous, always laughing. Hed been heartbroken when they split. Then he met Margaret, the opposite in every way: steady, dependable. With her, everything was sensible. No jokes, no surprises.
*»Want to take me to bed? After the wedding, thank you very much.»*
*»Brought me flowers? Did you pinch them from the park? Honestly, Oliver, someone couldve seen you!»*
Shed slipped seamlessly into married life, calling his parents *Mum* and *Dad* within weeks. His parents adored herclever, kind, the perfect homemaker. But maybe maybe he hadnt wanted perfection.
He sighed. Theyd never argued, never clashed. Hed just gone along with it. And Emily? Shed vanished. Someone said shed married in the end.
The tram jerked to a stop, doors screeching. One tide of passengers spilled out; another flooded in. Oliver shuffled toward the backthree stops to go. He never took public transport anymore, too used to his car, even if it was held together with duct tape.
Then he heard a voicebright, familiar.
*»Oliver, stand still, will you?»*
He turned, scanning the tram. Tired faces, people lost in their own worries. A plump woman gripped the hand of a fidgeting boy, about ten, who was practically vibrating with excitement.
*»Mum, guess what? Verity said»*
*»Oliver, behave.»*
*»But I want to tell you now!»*
*»Tell me at home.»*
*»No! At home youll be cooking, then listening to Annabelle go on about her boyfriends, then Charlie droning on about uni, then you and Dad will talk about the stupid cottage, and when do I get to talk?»* He scowled. *»And whyd you name me Oliver? Oliver Twist, more like.»*
*»Dont be silly. Its a lovely name.»*
*»Oh yeah? Oliver the sparrow, flew into a tree, tore his trousers, now look at me! Thats what the kids say.»*
An old lady in a red beret tutted. *»You should listen to him. One day, he wont want to talk to you at all.»*
*»Why wouldnt he?»* the woman snapped.
*»Because you wont let him now.»*
The woman huffed, then glanced at Oliver. Their eyes metjust for a secondbefore she turned back to her son. *»Fine. Tell me. But quietly.»*
The boy launched into his story, and Oliver suddenly realisedthat was *Emily*.
Of course it was. And this was the life he mightve had. That couldve been *his* son she was ignoring, *his* older kids monopolising her attention, *his* cottage shed complain about.
Would he have been happier? Probably not.
She hadnt even recognised him. To her, he was just another commuter.
Oddly, the thought lifted his spirits. His life wasnt so grey after all. The cottage wasnt so bad. Margaret *always* listenedeven when he rambled about fishing with his brother-in-law. And his car? A minor fix. A couple of evenings with the lads, and itd be right as rain.
Funny how breaking down had been the best thing to happen today.
As he moved toward the exit, he paused near Emily and the boy. Leaning down, he whispered something. The boys eyes widenedthen he burst out laughing.
*»What did he say?»* Emily asked as Oliver stepped off the tram.
*»That man? He told me what to say to the kid who teases me.»*
*»Oh?»*
*»If Im a sparrow, youre a starlingall squawk, no brains.»*
Emily stiffened. *»He always did have a sharp tongue.»*
*»Who? That man? Dyou know him?»*
*»No. Dont be silly.»*
She sank into a seat, pulling her son close. The tram was nearly empty now. Her husband hadnt been able to pick them up todayjust as well. Lately, shed been restless, dissatisfied. What if shed waited for Oliver instead of marrying Michael?
Fate had a funny way of showing her the answer.
That manfortyish, a little paunch, thinning hairwas just another tired commuter. All the magic, the *what-ifs*, gone like smoke.
*»Ollie lets bake a cake tonight.»*
*»Really? A chocolate one?»*
*»Yes, a chocolate one.»*
*»YES!»*
*»Hush! Honestly»*
Her husband had insisted on naming their son Oliver, after his grandfather. She hadnt minded. It *was* a nice name.
Oliver ducked into a florist near his house, just before closing. Only three white carnations left.
*»How much?»*
*»What?»* The shopkeeper glared.
*»For the flowers.»*
*»None left. Cant you see?»*
*»These?»*
*»Oh, just take them.»*
*»I cant do thatheres a fiver.»*
*»Dont be daft. Go on, take them wait, at least let me wrap»*
*»No need.»*
At home, he handed the flowers to Margaret. Instead of scolding him for wasting money, she smiledsoft, unexpected.
*»Whats this for?»*
*»No reason. Just wanted to.»*
That evening, stretched out on the sofa, he listened as she murmured on the phone in the hall.
*»Mine brought me flowers today,»* she said offhand. *»No, he hasnt done anything wrong hes always been a bit of a romantic. The flowers sat in a mason jar on the kitchen table, lopsided but bright. Later, his daughter tucked one behind her ear, declaring herself a queen. His son used the stem to flick peas across the dinner table. Margaret caught it before it hit the carpet, pressing it absently between the pages of her book. Oliver watched them, this small chaos, this ordinary humand for the first time in weeks, the weight in his chest didnt feel quite so heavy.
