**A Hard-Won Happiness**
Last Friday, the head accountant arrived at work dressed smartly, carrying a bottle of expensive wine, a cake, and a pack of sliced meats.
“Ladies, don’t leave right after work—we’ll sit for a bit and celebrate my birthday,” she announced.
Everyone rushed to hug and congratulate her, including Emma. She’d joined the company with little experience, often bearing the brunt of mistakes, but she genuinely saw Mrs. Wilkins as her mentor. The older woman embraced her and whispered:
“I’ll work a little longer, then retire. You’re the one I plan to recommend for my position. You’re disciplined, reliable…”
Before Emma could thank her, another colleague stepped in with congratulations.
They finished work early, cleared the desk in the head accountant’s office, covered it with a paper tablecloth, and laid out whatever was in the fridge. The director arrived with other department heads, presenting a bouquet of roses and a gift. The noise swelled again. Emma slipped out unnoticed.
“Where are you off to? We’ve only just sat down,” her friend and coworker, Sophie, caught her in the hallway.
“I have to go. Dad’s alone at home.”
“Stay a bit—half an hour won’t hurt him,” Sophie insisted.
“Don’t try to persuade me. He doesn’t like me being late—he’ll worry, his blood pressure will spike. At his age, that’s dangerous.”
“What age? How old is he?”
“Seventy-one,” Emma sighed.
“That’s hardly old! Some men at that age are still falling in love and remarrying…”
“Really, Soph, I have to go. Apologise for me.” She turned to leave, but Sophie caught her arm.
“You’ve backed yourself into a corner. You’re still young—no personal life. Is that normal? Doesn’t your dad 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 outlive him and— Oh, sorry,” Sophie cut herself off, catching Emma’s glare. “But who else will tell you the truth? Is he ill?”
“No, just ageing. Afraid of dying alone.”
“I don’t get it, Em. Your mum spent her life dancing around him. And where is she now? Now you’re—”
“Enough. It’s my life.” Emma pulled her arm free and hurried to her office for her coat. Sophie watched her go, pity in her eyes.
Outside, spring was in the air—most of the snow had melted, buds almost ready to burst. On her way home, Emma stopped at the shop. The queue was long. She checked her watch. She had time—she’d left work early, the walk home was ten minutes. She’d make it.
At home, she made noise in the hallway so her father would hear. She took the groceries to the kitchen, then peeked into the living room. He lay on the sofa, watching TV.
“Dad, I’m back. What are you watching?”
His tense stare at the screen told her he was displeased. When was he ever pleased?
“How are you feeling?” she asked patiently.
“Didn’t rush home, did you? Too busy gallivanting. My blood pressure’s up. I’ll die here alone, and you won’t even know,” he grumbled, shooting her a dark look.
“Gallivanting? I stopped at the shop for five minutes. Hold on.” She fetched the blood pressure monitor.
“Give me your arm.”
He didn’t move.
“Don’t be childish. Stop being stubborn.”
Reluctantly, he extended his arm. She fastened the cuff, pumped the bulb.
“You’re imagining things. Your pressure’s perfect.”
“You don’t know how to measure it. I can feel it,” he muttered.
Emma knew he wasn’t young—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 a doctor tomorrow?”
“What do they know? They’ll just hand out pills. Useless.”
Emma put the monitor away and went to change. As she cooked dinner, she argued with him silently in her head.
*I’d like to rest too. Staring at a screen all day hurts my eyes. I could be with colleagues now, eating cake, drinking wine. They’re offering me a promotion, and I ran away. What if Mrs. Wilkins is offended?*
*I’m an adult. I’m tired of you controlling me, nitpicking everything. You could at least walk to the corner shop. Sophie’s right—I’ll make myself ill. No energy left…*
She stopped herself. It wasn’t right to think like that, even if he couldn’t hear. Who knew how she’d feel at his age? Maybe she’d be worse. But who’d be there for her?
Growing up, her mum did everything—cleaned, cooked, hauled heavy shopping bags. Dad believed housework wasn’t a man’s job, especially with two women at home. Never mind that the second “woman” was just a child.
Emma couldn’t remember her mum lounging. She was always sewing, knitting, cooking… When Emma got older, she helped.
“Sweetheart, go play. You’ll have enough work when you’re married,” her mum would say, pitying her.
When Emma brought home her fiancé, James, her father scrutinised him, then declared he wouldn’t tolerate freeloaders in his house. He’d earned everything himself. No handouts…
James barely restrained himself from walking out. Later, he said he’d never live with parents. They rented a flat after marrying. Emma still visited often, helping her mum, whose blood pressure was always high.
James grew jealous, accused her of lying about the visits. They fought. When her mum died of a stroke, Emma started going to her dad’s daily. James left, filed for divorce. He tried to return, but by then, Emma had moved in with her father.
She rebelled sometimes, but it always ended the same—her father pretended to have a heart attack, demanded an ambulance. She’d apologise to the paramedics, burning with shame, as they scolded her for the false alarm.
If she stayed late at work, he’d greet her with insults. Men had shown interest, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave him—or bring a man home. So she lived with her father, no family, no children.
After dinner, she washed the dishes, mopped the hall. Fresh mud on her father’s shoes—so he did go out while she was at work. She said nothing, just retreated to her room, the blaring TV now background noise.
One day, Sophie said she couldn’t watch Emma waste her life anymore. She bought tickets—they were going to the coast in June. No excuses. She’d drag Emma if needed.
“What about Dad?” Emma fretted.
“He’s healthier than you. Cook ahead, ask a neighbour to check on him. Ten days won’t kill him. You need a break.”
Emma agreed. She’d only been to the coast once, years ago with James. As the trip neared, she wavered. Only the night before did she tell her father.
Predictably, he yelled, called her names, accused her of wanting him dead. For once, Emma cut him off.
“Even servants get holidays. You won’t die in ten days. I’ve cooked meals. Mrs. Thompson downstairs will check on you. I’m leaving her the keys—you wouldn’t answer the door otherwise. And stop pretending about your blood pressure. I know you go out. Walk to the shop if you need anything. I’ve written down your pills.”
Her father blinked, stunned by her defiance. Emma locked herself in her room until Sophie and her husband arrived. The train left at 2 a.m.
On the journey, Emma was anxious, but the sight of the sea washed it away. Within days, she was tanned, glowing, years younger.
“There we go. You look like the old Emma again. Men can’t stop staring.”
“Where?” Emma turned and spotted a tall, fit man watching her. His face was familiar. When he smiled and approached, calling her name, she recognised him—Daniel, a university classmate.
“Danny!” she grinned. “Here on holiday? With family?”
“My wife passed. Long illness. My daughter insisted I take a break. This place revived me. You with James?”
“You remember him?”
“Of course. I was in love with you. He waited for you outside lectures every day.”
Back then, Emma had been so smitten with James, she’d noticed nothing else.
“We divorced. I live with my dad.”
“You say that like it’s a life sentence.”
“He’s… difficult. Sophie practically forced me here. Fancy meeting you like this.”
“Fate,” Daniel said.
They spent every day together. Sophie made excuses to leave them alone.
“Em, you’re single, so am I.One year later, Emma and Daniel stood on the same beach where they’d reunited, exchanging vows as her father—now happily living with Mrs. Thompson—watched with uncharacteristic tears in his eyes.
