“I want a child and stability, but he calls me a ‘boring old woman.'”
Anton and I have been together five years. We met by chance—he picked me up hitchhiking on the motorway, and since then, we’ve barely been apart. What bound us together was our shared love of freedom, the thrill of the open road, the romance of unpredictable journeys. Backpacks, hitchhiking, endless motorways—that was our life, our passion. But as it turns out, passion can fade. At least for one of us.
There was a time when I, too, lived only for the moment. No thoughts of the future, no plans, no savings. What mattered were adventures, the rush, the music, the endless road. But now… now I’ve grown weary of this chaotic existence. My desires have changed. I long for peace, a family, a child. I want to wake up not in strange tents or dingy hostels, but in my own bed beside someone I love. I’ve grown up.
Our old friends, the ones we once roamed the country with, have all settled down. Some married, some had kids, others got mortgages or cottages in the countryside. They traded backpacks for prams, motorways for playgrounds. Yet here we are, still on the move, no clear destination, no idea where we’re going or when we’ll stop.
A lot has changed for me. I finished my master’s, got a proper job, and was recently promoted with a raise. Finally, I feel like my life has purpose, stability, a future.
Now, I can’t just drop everything and vanish on a whim. I have responsibilities, holidays must be booked in advance, my boss expects reports. Try explaining why I didn’t answer calls all Sunday—because a lorry driver picked us up, and we spent the day in the middle of nowhere with no signal.
I’m not complaining. I’m grateful for this job. It demands much, but it gives back—a good salary, security. I don’t want to lose that. But Anton… Anton is angry. He says I’ve become dull, that I’ve turned into a “schedule-obsessed woman with a notebook,” that the reckless girl he met is gone. He hates that I’ve “fallen into the system.” He even hinted that if I keep living like this, we’re headed different ways. Either him or the job.
Last July, we took a big trip—all the way to a music festival near Bath. I never expected it to be so wild. The atmosphere, the music, the crowds—complete madness! We stayed two days longer than planned, and in the end, I had to rush home alone, trains and all, because work wouldn’t wait.
Anton was hurt. But he’s his own boss—works remotely, drags his laptop everywhere, can afford to disappear whenever. The price of that freedom, though, is steep. He earns less than I do, irregularly. And when it eats at him, he lashes out at me, picking fights before dramatically “riding off into the sunset.”
Like last week—he packed his rucksack and left for Turkey. An old schoolmate of his lives in Izmir. He only called me from the border. Didn’t even say goodbye properly.
It stung. I was furious but stayed silent. Now, I’m just waiting for him to come back. I don’t want a fight—I want to talk. To ask: how much longer can we live like this? No plans, no security, no real goal. I’m no longer willing to chase the wind forever.
I’m not writing this to vent. I’m writing because I hope his mother reads it. She’s a wise woman, though strict. She’s always said I’m the only one who can steady Anton, that if I “sit still, he’ll sit beside me.” She’s tired of worrying—who we mix with, where we sleep, what scrapes we land in. And she really wants a grandchild…
I can’t disagree with her. Except on one thing—I can’t change her son. That’s impossible unless he wants it himself.
As for a child… I want one too. But not out of obligation, not against his will. Only when he’s ready. When he understands that happiness isn’t found on the road. Happiness is a home. Love. The certainty that tomorrow, we’ll still be there together.
