Robert was en route to the thirtyyear class reunion. He hadnt seen his schoolmates since they all went off to university and work, and his schedule was tighter than a pair of new dress shoes. After finishing school he packed his bags for a degree in Manchester, then a stint in London, and finally a job that paid the rent. Wanting to earn more, he set up his own consultancy, which has had its fair share of peaks and troughs.
Every now and then he felt a pang of nostalgia, scrolling through old photographs on social media while posting a few of his own. He was especially keen to spot Harriet. In their teenage years Robert had a soft spot for her, but Harriet never seemed interested in the quiet, bookish type. The last time he tried to impress her with a bouquet, she hopped onto Jacks motorcycle, ignored the flowers, and sped off, kicking up a cloud of dust. He never approached her again, watching her disappear down the road. He had wanted to ask her to ride along, to lend a hand, but never mustered the courage.
Roberts circle at school had always been small; he spent most of his time hitting the books. Only a handful of mates joined him for extra maths tutorials and cram sessions before the Alevels. On the day of the reunion he arrived in high spirits, armed with a little gift for every old classmatenothing was forgotten.
The venue was a cosy coffee lounge. Laughter bubbled, memories were swapped, and Robert found himself glancing at Harriet, who was perched at the far end, eyes glued to her phone. After school Harriet had indeed married Jack, but, as Robert learned, they no longer lived together. She was now raising a sick child on her own.
Robert decided to strike up a conversation, only to be met with a sharp retort.
You live in that posh townhouse and pretend you understand our woes! Ive seen your house, your wife lounging in beauty salons, your staffnothing you show on Instagram. My kids are studying abroad; Im caring for a sick son. What could we possibly talk about? You wouldnt get it.
Harriet, am I the cause of your troubles? Robert asked, trying to keep the tone light.
In this country theres not enough money for sick children, yet people like you sit on piles of cash and act greedy! she snapped.
Robert felt his blood boil; he didnt like the subject being flung at him, but he had a reply ready.
How many sick children have you helped, Harriet?
I have my own ailing child! And I sometimes send a text offering help.
I regularly donate sizable sums to charity, but I dont go around shouting about it. So, whos actually doing more?
Its simple for youdropping an extra hundred thousand pounds doesnt make you poorer. My help counts more because I literally lose a bite of my own bread. Do you know how I earn my money? I hop on two buses each morning and collect the change!
A few people turned to listen, some nodded in Harriets favour, the rest stayed quiet.
Robert gathered his presents, slipped a wrapped envelope onto the table for Harriet, and asked the waiter to hand it over. As he left, he mused that theyd all started with the same odds, the same talent. He, however, had chosen studying over drinking pints in the yard, chosen books over smoking behind the corner shop, swapped the local vocational college for a university he was genuinely interested in, and taken the risk of stepping out of his comfort zone to start a business.
Hed stumbled, learned, and faced setbacks, but hed earned every penny himself. It wasnt theft; it was hard work. How many of you know a Harriet or a fellow from your own school whos quick to count other peoples money? Sure, some were born into wealth and got good schooling, but countless others from modest backgrounds have made it on their own. In the end, everything lies in our own hands, and we each decide which path to take.
