I was on my way to the class reunion, the first time Id seen my old mates in thirty years. After leaving secondary school Id headed straight off to university in Leeds, then taken a job in Birmingham. Later I launched my own firm, with its fair share of ups and downs.
From time to time I missed the lads from our school. In my spare moments Id scroll through their pictures on social media, sharing a few of my own. I was especially keen to catch up with Emily. Back in sixth form Id been smitten with her, though she never gave me the time of day. She found the studious, quiet types dull. The last time I handed her a bouquet she leapt onto Marks motorbike without even glancing at the flowers, revved off and kicked up a cloud of dust. I never approached her again; I drove off into the distance, thinking of asking her to ride with me, to help her, but I never did.
I didnt keep many close friends from school most of my time was spent on the books. Id only stayed in touch with a handful whod joined me for extra maths sessions and our university entrance prep.
The reunion was a bright, sunny afternoon. Id brought a small gift for each old classmate, making sure no one was left out. We gathered in a cosy café, laughing and swapping stories about the old days. I kept glancing at Emily, studying her from across the room. She sat far away, eyes glued to her phone. After school shed married Mark, but theyd long since moved out of the house theyd once shared. I learned she was now raising a sick child on her own.
I decided to talk to her, but she met me with sharp words.
You live in your fancy bungalow and have no clue about our troubles! Ive seen your house, your wife never works, just hops from salon to salon. You must have a big staff, yet you never show them in your photos. Your kids are at university abroad, and Ive got a sick son. What could we possibly discuss? You wouldnt understand.
Emily, am I to blame for your problems?
In this country theres no money for sick children, yet people like you sit on their fortunes and get greedy!
Her accusations boiled me. I dont like hearing that subject tossed around, but I had a reply.
How many sick children have you helped?
I have a sick one myself! And I do send a text now and then offering help.
I regularly donate large sums to charity, but I never make a fuss about it. So which of us is truly helpful?
Its simple for you giving away an extra hundred thousand pounds doesnt make you poorer. My help counts more because what I give comes straight from my own pocket. Do you know how I earn? Every morning I catch two buses to work and scrape together pennies!
A few onlookers nodded in her favour, the rest stayed silent.
When it was time to leave, I placed the presents on the table by the door and asked the waiter to hand a small envelope to Emily.
Walking away I thought about how wed all had the same chances, the same talent. I, James Whitaker, chose study over having a pint in the back garden, over a cigarette outside the corner shop, over endless nights at the local club. I picked the university that appealed to me and chased it, not the nearby technical college. I took a risk and stepped out of my comfort zone to start my own business.
I fought, learned, stumbled, and lost. It wasnt my fault that they now lead the lives they do and point fingers at my success, at my wealth, at my choices. I didnt steal from anyone; I earned it myself.
How many of you know people like Emily and the other old classmates who love counting other peoples money? Some were lucky enough to be born into affluent families and get a good education, but there are plenty of stories of folks from modest backgrounds, children of uneducated parents, who make it on their own. Everything is in our own hands, and each of us decides our own path.
