25October2025
Today I finally made it to the reunion of my old secondaryschool class. It had been three decades since Id seen any of them. After leaving grammar school I headed straight for university in Leeds, then a graduate scheme in London, and later a stint in Manchester before I launched my own consultancy. The road was anything but smooth there were highs, lows and a few sleepless nights. Whenever I had a spare moment over the years Id scroll through the group chat, liking the pictures theyd posted and uploading a few of my own, as if that could bridge the gap of thirty years.
What I most wanted, though, was to catch up with Poppy. In Year11 I had a soft spot for her, but she never seemed to notice the quiet boy who spent more time with his textbooks than with the lads at the afterschool bar. The last time I tried to impress her I showed up with a handful of daisies, only for her to leap onto Jamess motorcycle, rev the engine and disappear down the lane, leaving a cloud of dust behind her. I never approached her again; I just watched her ride away, imagining what it would be like to ask her to join me for a drive, to lend a hand, to be there. I never did.
I never had a close circle at school most of my time was spent hitting the books. A few mates from the maths club were the only ones Id ever study with for the entrance exams. So when I arrived at the café, I was in a surprisingly good mood, having packed little gifts for every former classmate. I made sure not to forget anyone.
The café was warm and bustling. We laughed, recalled the old teachers, swapped stories about the headmasters eccentricities. I found myself stealing glances at Poppy, studying the way she kept her phone glued to her palm, sitting a good distance from the rest of us. Shed married James after school, but as I later discovered she now lives alone, caring for a chronically ill child. I decided to talk to her, hoping to bridge the years, but the conversation quickly turned hostile.
Do you live in that massive house of yours and think you understand our struggles? Ive seen your estate. Your wife never works, she only spends her days at the salon. You must have a whole staff, yet you never post any of them on social media. Your children are studying abroad, while Im looking after a sick son. What could we possibly discuss? You wouldnt get it.
Poppy, am I to blame for your problems?
In this country theres never enough money for sick children, yet people like you sit on piles of cash and turn a blind eye!
I felt a heat rise in my cheeks. I dont like that subject being weaponised, but I had a reply.
How many sick children have you helped, Poppy?
I have my own sick child! And yes, I occasionally send an SMS offering help.
I regularly donate sizable sums to charities, just not loudly. So who is actually helping more?
Its easy for you; giving away an extra hundred thousand pounds doesnt make you poorer. My help counts more because I literally cut it from my own pocket. Do you know how I earn? I catch two buses each morning to get to work and scrape together pennies!
A few people around the table nodded, some murmured in Poppys favour, others stayed silent.
When the evening wrapped up I left the gifts on the side table and asked the waiter to place an envelope for Poppy on the bill. As I walked out, I reflected on our parallel paths. We all had the same talent, the same opportunities. I chose to study rather than spend my evenings down the local pub, to read instead of loitering behind the corner shop, to chase a degree rather than a trade course. I took risks, left my comfort zone, and built a business from scratch.
It wasnt easy. I faced setbacks, loss, and the occasional doubt. Yet I earned every penny myself; I didnt steal it from anyone. I wonder how many of us know people like Poppy, who count on others money, and classmates who think success must be inherited. Some were fortunate enough to be born into affluent families, but there are countless stories of folks from modest backgrounds who made it on their own. In the end, everything rests in our own hands, and each of us makes the choices that shape our lives.
