**A Difficult Happiness**
On Friday, the head accountant arrived at work dressed elegantly, carrying a bottle of expensive wine, a cake, and a platter of sliced meats.
“Girls, don’t rush off after work—let’s stay a little and celebrate my birthday,” she announced.
Immediately, everyone rushed to hug and congratulate her. So did Emily. She had joined the company with no experience, taking the brunt of every mistake, yet she genuinely considered Mrs. Whitmore her mentor. The older woman embraced Emily and whispered in her ear:
“I’ll work a little longer, then retire. Emily, I plan to recommend you for my position. I know you can handle it. You’re disciplined, responsible…”
Emily barely had time to thank her before the next colleague stepped forward with their own congratulations.
They finished work early, cleared the large desk in the head accountant’s office, covered it with a disposable tablecloth, and laid out everything they could scavenge from the fridge. The director and heads of other departments arrived just as the celebration began, presenting Mrs. Whitmore with a grand bouquet of roses and a gift. The noise rose again. Emily slipped out unnoticed.
“Where are you off to? We’ve only just sat down,” called her colleague and friend Charlotte, catching her in the corridor.
“I have to go. My father’s alone at home.”
“Stay a little longer, just half an hour. Nothing will happen to him in that time,” Charlotte insisted.
“Charlotte, don’t. He hates when I’m late—he gets worried, his blood pressure spikes. At his age, that’s dangerous.”
“What age? How old is he?”
“Seventy-one,” Emily sighed.
“That’s nothing. Men that age still fall in love and remarry…”
“Honestly, I have to go. Apologise for me.” Emily turned to leave, but Charlotte caught her wrist.
“You’ve trapped yourself. You’re young—no personal life. Is that normal? Doesn’t your father want you to have a family? Grandchildren?”
“What grandchildren? I’m forty-two…”
“So what? You’ve written yourself off too soon. At this rate, you’ll go before he—oh, sorry,” Charlotte faltered, seeing Emily’s reproachful look. “But who else will tell you the truth? Is he ill?”
“No, he’s just… afraid of dying alone.”
“I don’t get you, Em. Your mother spent her whole life dancing around him. And where is she now? And now you—”
“Enough. It’s my life.” Emily pulled her hand free and hurried down the corridor to fetch her coat. Charlotte watched her go with pity.
Outside, spring was in the air—the snow had nearly melted, buds ready to burst on the trees. On her way home, Emily stopped at a shop. The queue at the till was long. She checked her watch. She had time—she’d left work early, home was only ten minutes away. She exhaled.
At home, she made noise in the hallway so her father would know she was back. She carried the groceries to the kitchen, then went to the living room. Her father lay on the sofa, watching TV.
“Dad, I’m home. What are you watching?”
The tension in his gaze told her he was displeased. When was he ever pleased?
“How are you feeling?” she asked patiently.
“Took your time coming home, didn’t you? Too busy gallivanting. My blood pressure’s up. I’ll die here alone, and you won’t even notice,” he grumbled, glaring.
“Gallivanting? I was barely late—just stopped at the shop. Here.” She fetched the blood pressure monitor and returned.
“Give me your arm.”
He didn’t move.
“Don’t be childish. Stop sulking.”
Reluctantly, he extended his arm. Emily fastened the cuff, pumped the bulb.
“You’re imagining things. Your pressure’s fine.”
“You don’t know how to measure it. I *feel* it,” he muttered.
Emily knew he wasn’t young anymore—he’d worked construction his whole life, needed care. But that didn’t mean he could lie on the sofa all day.
“Should I call the doctor tomorrow?”
“What do they know? They’ll just prescribe pills. Useless.”
Emily put the monitor away and went to her room to change. Later, while cooking dinner, she held an endless, silent argument with him.
*”I need rest too. Staring at a screen all day—my eyes ache. I could be celebrating now, eating cake, drinking wine. They’re offering me a promotion, and I ran away. What if Mrs. Whitmore is offended?*
*I’m an adult. I’m sick of your control, your nitpicking. You could at least go to the corner shop. Charlotte’s right—I’ll make myself ill like this. I’m exhausted…”*
She cut herself off. It was wrong to think like that, even if he couldn’t hear. Who knew how she’d behave at his age? Maybe worse. But who’d be there for her then?
As long as she could remember, her mother had done everything—cleaning, cooking, lugging heavy shopping bags. Her father believed housework wasn’t a man’s job, especially with two women at home. Never mind that one of those women had been a child.
She never saw her mother idle—always cooking, sewing, knitting. As Emily grew older, she helped.
“Emily, go play. You’ll have plenty of work when you’re married,” her mother would say, pitying her.
When Emily brought home her fiancé, Daniel, her father studied him, then declared he wouldn’t tolerate freeloaders in his house. He’d earned everything himself—Daniel shouldn’t expect handouts.
Emily saw Daniel barely holding back from walking out. Later, he refused to live with her parents. After the wedding, they rented a flat. She still visited often, helping her mother, whose blood pressure was always high.
Daniel grew jealous, accused her of lying about her visits. They fought. When her mother died of a stroke, Emily started visiting her father daily. Daniel left, filed for divorce. Later, he tried to return, but by then, Emily had moved in with her father.
She rebelled sometimes, but it always ended the same—her father faked chest pains, begged her to call an ambulance. She’d burn with shame as the paramedics scolded her for wasting their time. His health was fine.
If she stayed late at work, he’d greet her with accusations, insults. Men had shown interest, but she never dared leave him, nor bring a man home. So she remained—no family, no children.
After dinner, Emily washed the dishes, mopped the hallway. Fresh mud clung to her father’s shoes—proof he *did* go out while she worked. She said nothing, just retreated to her room, the blaring TV now background noise.
Once, Charlotte said she couldn’t watch Emily ruin her life any longer. She bought tickets—they’d go to the seaside in June. No excuses. She’d drag Emily there if needed.
“*What about Dad?*” Emily fretted.
“He’s healthier than you. Cook meals for him, ask a neighbour to check in. Ten days won’t kill him. You *need* this.”
Emily couldn’t disagree. She’d only been to the seaside once—on her honeymoon with Daniel. As the trip neared, she hesitated until the last minute before telling her father.
As usual, he cursed her, screamed she wanted him dead. For once, Emily snapped.
“Even maids get holidays. You won’t die in ten days. I’ve cooked meals. Mrs. Higgins from downstairs will check on you. I’m leaving her the keys—you wouldn’t open the door otherwise. Stop faking your blood pressure. I *know* you go out. The shop’s next door—you can manage. I’ve written down your pills.”
Her father blinked, stunned by her defiance. Emily locked herself in her room until Charlotte and her husband arrived. Their train left at 2 a.m.
On the journey, Emily wavered, but the sea washed her worries away. Within days, she tanned, glowed, looked years younger.
“There now, you’re yourself again. Men can’t stop staring.”
“Where?” Emily turned—and saw a tall, fit man watching her. His face was familiar. When he smiled and approached, calling her name, she recognized him—an old university classmate.
“Christopher!” she beamed. “Are you here with family?”
“My wife passed. She was ill a long time. My daughter insisted I take a break. This place revived me. You’re here with Daniel?”
“You *remember* him?”
“Of course. I was in love with you. He waited outside lectures for you every day.”
Back then, she’d been so smitten with Daniel, she’d seen nothing else.
“We divorced. I live with my father now.”
“You say that like it’s a prison sentence.”
“His temper… Charlotte practically kidnapped me. FancyEmily took a deep breath, smiled at Christopher, and whispered, “Then let’s stop wasting time—we’ve waited long enough,” as the sun set over the sea, painting their new beginning in gold.
