**The Path to Happiness**
Rodney walked home from work. It was a fair distance, but the evening was warm and still, the kind where he didn’t mind not having a car. He strolled along, enjoying the air and the promise of summer.
All his life, he’d lived with his parents in the heart of London, surrounded by noise and bustle. But recently, he’d moved to the outskirts, to a quiet suburban estate. He’d come home, collapse into bed, only to wake early and head back into the lively city centre for work.
At night, a curious moon peered through his window, unobstructed by trees or buildings—hardly any curtains hung there yet. His new flat was on the twelfth floor, overlooking fields and a distant line of woodland. At first, he’d wake in the small hours, disoriented by the unfamiliar blue glow of moonlight. Then he’d remember where he was, relax, and drift back to sleep.
***
Two years ago, he hadn’t known shared flats like this still existed. Not the old-fashioned kind with ten families crammed into one kitchen, but living with a stranger, sharing a bathroom—it wasn’t exactly pleasant.
Rodney had grown up in a typical family, in a two-bedroom flat in the city centre, with high ceilings and a long, narrow hallway leading to a tiny kitchen. His mum worked as a nursery teacher, his dad was a bus driver. They weren’t rich, but they could afford a seaside holiday now and then.
Everything fell apart in a single day. His father hadn’t broken any rules—he’d waited for the green light, accelerated smoothly—when suddenly a woman with a wheeled suitcase dashed across the road. He’d slammed the brakes, but you can’t stop a bus instantly. She was knocked aside like a ragdoll, dying before reaching the hospital.
Turns out, she’d been rushing for a train. Her son-in-law had promised to drive her to the countryside, then changed plans. They’d argued, and in her anger, she’d sprinted for the station, thinking she could make it. Trains don’t wait.
That same son-in-law later screamed in court that a drunk driver had killed his beloved mother-in-law, demanding severe punishment. Yes, the bus depot had thrown a retirement party the night before—there’d been drinks. But the morning medical check showed no signs of impairment. His dad hardly ever drank. Yet somehow, the report claimed otherwise.
To protect his colleagues, his father claimed he’d had a drink at his wife’s friend’s birthday. He took the blame, shielding the others—and went to prison. His mother wept, money grew tight. Nursery wages weren’t much. Rodney declared he’d skip uni and start working.
*”What, join the army? First your father, now you—do you want to bury me?”* his mum had sobbed.
To calm her, he promised to keep studying. Then, just before graduation, his father died of a heart attack in prison. Rodney, true to his word, enrolled at university. Two years later, his mother remarried and moved in with her new husband—a high-ranking civil servant, though Rodney barely registered where or what exactly he did.
Rodney stayed alone in their flat. His student friends, hearing he had the place to himself, started throwing parties there. He was a generous host, even letting them crash overnight. At first, he loved the chaos. But soon, waking up to strangers in his home grew tiresome.
Neighbors complained to his mother. She showed up unannounced one morning—just in time to see a naked girl stroll past her to the bathroom, utterly unbothered.
Of course, she exploded. Kicked everyone out, threatened to cut him off if the drinking and orgies didn’t stop.
For two weeks, the flat was silent. Then his mates begged to use it for a birthday party. They kept reasonably quiet but drank heavily.
The next morning, Rodney woke beside a naked girl, her red hair fanned across the pillow. The only redhead in their group was Marigold Smallwood.
Carefully, he slipped out of bed. He remembered nothing, but if anything had happened, surely he wouldn’t have bothered with boxers afterward.
The flat was empty. He showered, made coffee. The smell woke Marigold. She padded in wearing his oversized t-shirt, murmuring nonsense, leaning into him. He stepped back.
*”What? Last night you said you loved me,”* she pouted. *”Give me that coffee.”* She reached for his mug.
*”Don’t be daft,”* Rodney said uncertainly. *”Nothing happened. I’m not suicidal—Colin would flatten me if he found out.”*
*”We broke up. Didn’t you know? Why d’you think I got so wrecked? He’s shagging Lauren from fifth year.”*
After bundling a sniffling Marigold into the shower, he cleared the bottles, washed up, and aired out the flat. His mum might drop by unannounced.
They missed lectures. Marigold tried to drag him to the cinema—*”Might as well!”*—but he refused and headed to class. When friends asked where she was, he feigned ignorance. *”Didn’t she leave with the rest of you?”*
For two weeks, Marigold ignored him. Then she cornered him. *”I’m late.”* Rodney’s stomach dropped.
*”Pregnant. Stop pretending you don’t get it,”* she snapped.
*”How’s that my fault?”* His insides turned to ice.
*”We were drunk—you could’ve been careful! What am I supposed to do?”* She wailed into his chest. People stared.
Rodney caved. *”Fine. I’m not ready, but I’ll marry you if it shuts you up.”* She kissed his cheek. The next day, she moved in from student halls.
His mum screeched she’d seen this coming. Surprisingly, her husband backed Rodney. Decent bloke, after all. They married after summer exams—which he nearly failed.
Marigold gave birth in early December: a beautiful baby girl with blonde curls and blue eyes. Rodney stared, feeling nothing. His mum still worked, couldn’t babysit. Marigold refused to go to her parents, so she took leave from uni.
Rodney rushed home after lectures. Exhausted, Marigold thrust the baby into his arms. He’d study with textbooks in one hand, the baby in the other. Sleepless nights left him foggy in class. They fought viciously—once, Marigold fled to her mates at halls.
*”Sometimes I think you don’t want me or the baby. Did you just marry me for the flat?”* he asked one day. *”Is she even mine? She was due near New Year’s.”*
*”Don’t believe me? Get a paternity test,”* Marigold said coolly—then exploded.
They didn’t speak for a week. Grudgingly, she’d hiss orders: *”Iron this. Watch her.”* He cracked first. Things smoothed over, but the doubt lingered.
Once, returning from uni, he saw women’s shoes in the hall. *”Marigold’s friends,”* he guessed—until he overheard:
*”Lucky you—flat in the city, a husband. What if Rodney finds out?”*
*”He won’t. Unless you tell him.”*
Rodney barged in. *”So you did lie. You weren’t at halls—you were with Colin!”*
Marigold jerked. Three pairs of eyes fixed on him. He stormed to student housing. Colin was drinking with mates. Rodney swung—but Colin, a fit bloke, dodged and knocked him out cold.
*”Maybe we planned this,”* Colin smirked.
Rodney lunged again, but friends held him back. At home, he told Marigold to leave.
*”I’m not going. I’m your wife—registered here. Polly’s legally yours. We sell the flat, split it, and I won’t sue for child support.”*
Rodney remembered his father’s fate—and agreed. That’s how he ended up in a shared flat. His roommate was a forty-five-year-old stocker from Tesco, whose portly girlfriend often visited with groceries—extra for Rodney.
Six months later, the roommate proposed a swap: *”You take my aunt’s one-bedder on the outskirts. Quiet, near the woods.”*
Rodney agreed. After graduating, his stepdad helped him land a job. Life improved. His mum offered to buy furniture, but he refused. He’d manage alone, save for a car.
***
The sun dipped, the air chilled. May wasn’t summer yet. His feet ached. On a playground bench, he spotted a hunched figure. Almost home, but the sight nagged at him. He crossed the low fence.
Not a teen—a young girl, tear-streaked. *”You okay?”*
*”What’s it to youHe took her hand, and in that moment, knew he had finally found the happiness he hadn’t even known he was searching for.