29October2025 London
Im on my way to the class reunion, the first time Ive seen any of those old faces in three decades. After leaving school, I headed straight to university in Birmingham, then a job in Manchester, and eventually set up my own firm in the City. The journey has been a rollercoaster of triumphs and setbacks.
In quieter moments I scroll through the groups posts on social media, watching old snapshots and posting a few of my own. My mind keeps drifting back to Imogen. Back in school I was smitten, but she never gave me the time of day. The last time I tried to get her attention I showed up with a bouquet, only for her to hop onto Adams motorcycle, ignore the flowers, and thunder off, kicking up dust. I never tried again. I let the chance slip away, watching her ride away, wishing I could have asked her to join me, to help her, but I stayed silent.
I never had a tight circle at school; most of my time was spent hitting the books. I only kept a handful of mates who joined me for extra maths sessions and the university entrance exams. I arrived at the reunion in a buoyant mood, a little bag of gifts tucked under my arm for each old classmate none forgotten.
We gathered in a cosy café, laughter spilling over stories of teachers and exam nerves. My eyes kept returning to Imogen, who sat at the far end, scrolling on her phone, aloof as ever. After school she married Adam, but theyve long since moved apart. I learned she now raises a sick child on her own.
When I finally approached her, her reply was sharp, bordering on hostility.
Do you live in your fancy house and pretend you understand our struggles? Ive seen your home your wife never works, only goes to beauty salons. Youve got staff you never even mention in your photos. Your children study abroad while Im caring for a chronically ill son. What are we even talking about? You wouldnt understand.
Imogen, am I responsible for your problems? I asked, trying to stay calm.
In this country theres never enough money for sick kids, yet people like you sit on piles of cash and act greedy! she snapped.
Her words made me hot under the collar; I dont like discussions about money. I had a response ready.
How many ill children have you helped? I pressed.
Im the one whos ill! And I occasionally send texts offering help, she retorted.
I regularly donate sizable sums to charities, quietly, without making a show of it. So, whos actually doing more good?
Its easy for you you dont feel the loss of a hundredthousand pounds you give away. My help comes at a personal cost; I literally give from my own mouth. Do you know how I earn my money? I catch two buses every morning to work and still end up with pennies!
A few onlookers sided with her, others just stared.
I left the table, slipping the gifts onto the sideboard and asking the waiter to hand Imogen an envelope. As I walked away I reflected on the equal footing we once shared in school. Many of us had the same abilities; I chose academia over drinking ale in the back garden, over smoking behind the corner shop, over dancing till dawn. I pursued a degree I truly wanted, took the risk of stepping out of my comfort zone, and built a business from scratch.
It hasnt been easy there have been losses, missed chances, and moments of doubt. Yet its my own work, not anyone elses theft, that earned what I have. I wonder how many people like Imogen or my old classmates count other peoples money. Some were lucky enough to be born into wealth and get good education, but countless others from modest backgrounds have forged success on their own. In the end, everything is in our own hands, and each of us decides our path.
