“I want a child and stability, but he calls me a ‘boring old bird.'”
Antony and I have been together for five years. We met by chance—he gave me a lift when I was hitchhiking on the M4. Since then, we’ve barely been apart. What bonded us was our shared love for freedom, the thrill of the open road, and the romance of unpredictable adventures. Backpacks, hitchhiking, endless motorways—it was our way of life, our passion. But, as it turns out, passion can fade over time. At least for one of us.
There was a time when I lived purely for the moment. Never thought about the future, plans, or savings. All that mattered was adventure, excitement, music, and the never-ending road. But now… now I feel exhausted by this chaotic existence. My desires have changed. I long for peace, a family, a child. I want to wake up in my own bed, next to the man I love, not in strangers’ tents or dodgy hostels. I’ve grown up.
Our old mates, the ones we used to road-trip with, have all settled down. Some are married, some have kids, a few have mortgages and holiday cottages in Cornwall. They’ve traded backpacks for prams and motorways for playgrounds. Meanwhile, we’re still drifting, with no real plan, no idea where we’re heading or when we’ll stop.
A lot has changed for me. I finished my master’s, landed a proper job in my field, and recently got promoted with a pay rise. For the first time, I feel like my life has purpose, stability, and a future.
I can’t just drop everything for a spontaneous trip anymore. I have responsibilities—holidays must be booked in advance, my boss expects deadlines met. And good luck explaining why I missed calls all Sunday—because some lorry driver gave us a lift 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 a lot, but it gives back—decent pay, security, a sense of direction. I don’t want to lose that. But Antony… Antony resents it. He says I’ve become boring, that I’ve turned into some “uptight woman with a planner and a to-do list,” that the reckless girl he fell for is disappearing. He hates that I’ve become “part of the system.” He even hinted that if I keep living like this, we’re done. His ultimatum: either me or the job.
Last month, we went on a big trip—drove all the way to Glastonbury for the festival. I didn’t expect it to be so brilliant. The vibe, the music, the people—absolute madness! We stayed two extra days, and in the end, I had to rush back alone—by train, changing at three different stations, because work wouldn’t wait.
Antony was hurt. But he’s his own boss—works remotely, drags his laptop everywhere, and can basically live wherever he fancies. The catch? He earns less than me, and it’s unreliable. When that gnaws at him, he picks fights, nitpicks, and dramatically “rides off into the sunset.”
Just last week—he packed his bag and flew to Turkey. A school friend of his lives in Antalya. He rang me from the airport. Didn’t even say goodbye properly.
It stung. I was furious, but I didn’t argue. Now I’m just waiting for him to come back. I don’t want a row—I want to talk. To ask him: how much longer can we live like this? With no plans, no roots, no purpose. I’m not willing to chase the wind forever.
I’m not writing this to vent. I’m writing because I hope his mum reads this. She’s a wise woman, though stern. She’s always said I’m the only one who can steady Antony, the only one who can make him grow up. She’s begged me—”Plant your feet, and he’ll stay too.” She’s tired of worrying about who we’re with, where we’re sleeping, what trouble we’re in. And—she really wants a grandchild…
Honestly? I agree with her. But she’s wrong about one thing—I can’t change her son. That’s impossible unless he wants it himself.
And a baby… I want one too. But not out of pressure, not in spite of him. Only when he’s ready. When he realises happiness isn’t found on the road. Happiness is at home, in love, and in knowing tomorrow, we’ll still be together.