Robert Whitford set off for the class reunion after three decades apart. He had not seen his old schoolmates since leaving the grammar school in Manchester, where he had boarded straight for university in Leeds and then gone straight into work. When the years wore on he grew restless with his modest salary, set up his own engineering firm, and weathered the inevitable highs and lows of entrepreneurship.
In quieter moments he would scroll through the faces of his former classmates on social media, sometimes sharing his own old photographs. Above all he hoped to catch a glimpse of Emily Thorne. In their school days Robert had been smitten with her, though Emily never returned his shy glances. When he finally presented her with a modest bunch of daisies, she hopped onto the back of Adam Clarkes motorcycle without a word, the engine roaring away and leaving a cloud of dust. He never approached her again, watching her disappear over the hills, wishing he could have asked her to ride together, to lend a hand. He never did.
Robert had never been the life of the class; he had spent most of his youth hunched over textbooks, only forming a tight circle with a few boys who attended extra maths tutorials after school. He arrived at the reunion in high spirits, pockets full of small presents he had bought for each of his old mates, careful not to forget anyone.
The gathering took place in a cosy tea room in a small village near York. Laughter rang through the room as stories of school mischief resurfaced. Roberts eyes often drifted toward Emily, who sat at the far end, eyes fixed on her mobile. After leaving school she had indeed married Adam, but the couple no longer lived together. Robert learned later that Emily was raising a chronically ill child on her own.
Determined to speak, Robert approached her, only to be met with sharp words.
You live in a spacious cottage while we struggle! Ive seen your house, your wife never works, she spends all her time at the salon. You have servants, you never show them in your pictures. Your children study abroad, and Im left caring for a sick son. What could we possibly discuss? You wouldnt understand.
Robert, am I to blame for your troubles? Emily snapped.
In this country theres barely enough funding for sick children, yet men like you sit on piles of money and hoard it greedily!
Robert felt his temper flare; the subject was one he dreaded. He replied calmly.
How many sick children have you helped, Emily?
My own child is ill! And I sometimes send a quick text offering help.
I regularly donate sizable sums to charity, though I never trumpet it. So tell me, who is truly helpful?
Its simple for you; a hundredthousand pounds doesnt make you poorer. My help is more personal, I give what I can from my own mouth. Do you know how I earn my money? Each morning I catch two buses to the factory and scrape together pennies!
Other guests glanced between them. Some nodded in Emilys favour; the rest fell silent.
When the evening drew to a close, Robert placed his gifts on the side table and asked the waiter to hand Emily an envelope. As he walked away, he reflected on the equal chances they once shared. Many in their class possessed the same talents, yet he had chosen books over the tempting pull of the local pub, ales over idle chatter, study over the lure of the dance hall. He had pursued a university he truly liked, risked his comfort to launch his own business, and endured both triumph and loss.
It was not his fault that others now led lives he could not comprehend, nor that they condemned his success. He had earned every pound honestly, not stolen. How many of us know people like Emily and Roberts old classmates, forever counting other peoples coin? Some were born into comfort and received good schooling, yet countless others from humble, uneducated families have forged their own fortunes. In the end, destiny lies in our own hands, and each of us chooses the path we walk.
