**One Step from Happiness**
Olivia had always been pretty—petite, fair-haired, with a lovely figure and delicate features. After graduating from university, she stayed to work in London. Only her love life never quite took off. She never lacked male attention, yet marriage proposals never came. And now, she was almost thirty.
At first, she joked that there was no rush—she had time. Then, the melancholy set in. Time, as they say, is a sly companion.
“Maybe someone cursed you? Think—did you ever cross someone’s path?” her mother’s friend had asked last New Year’s.
“I’ve never crossed anyone, taken what wasn’t mine, or broken up a family,” Olivia answered firmly.
“Then someone must’ve envied you terribly,” Aunt Irene insisted.
Olivia didn’t argue. Envy was nothing new—girls at school had whispered about her, jealous of the boys who flocked around her. She studied hard, leaving love for later.
Her mother raised her alone. They weren’t poor, but life wasn’t lavish either. Her mum was brilliant at knitting—Olivia’s wardrobe overflowed with delicate, cosy, stylish jumpers. Some were even sold for extra income.
“Don’t be absurd, Irene. She’s got plenty of suitors. The trick is not to rush,” her mother defended her.
“Suitors aren’t husbands—or at least a decent lover,” Aunt Irene shot back.
“What’s the difference?” her mother snapped, refusing to imagine her bright girl as someone’s mistress.
“Just a name on a birth certificate—crucial for a child’s future. Some lovers make better husbands…” And Aunt Irene launched into her hundredth tale of how her lover had bought her a flat, paid for her son’s education, while her useless, drunkard husband got the boot.
That year, Olivia decided she wouldn’t spend New Year’s with her mother again. Tired of the lectures, she’d rather be alone. Yet as the holidays neared, loneliness gnawed at her.
Walking home, she stepped aside to let a woman with a pram pass.
“Olivia!” the woman cried, stopping abruptly. “Don’t you recognise me? It’s Emma—Emma Clarkson now!”
Olivia forced a smile. “Emma. You’re in London?”
“Three years now. Fancy bumping into you! I heard you—” Emma was clearly gearing up for a long chat.
“Yours?” Olivia cut in, peering at the pram to avoid questions.
Emma beamed. “My daughter.”
Olivia leaned in. Nestled in lace, under a knitted pink hat, slept a tiny miracle—chubby cheeks, long lashes, lips like a bow. The scent of milk, sleepy warmth, and wool enveloped her.
“Lovely. Takes after her father?”
“Spitting image! When she was born—”
“Sorry, I’m in a rush. Let’s catch up later,” Olivia lied, hurrying off.
Her mood soured. Of all people to run into in this massive city. In school, Emma had been a wallflower—plain, forgettable. Yet here she was: married, settled, radiating joy. Where was *her* happiness? The years slipped by, and she was still alone.
Lost in thought, she reached home. Her Christmas tree, decorated a week ago, now irritated her—another reminder she’d ring in the New Year alone.
Just as she put the kettle on, her phone rang. Daniel.
“You home, love? I’ll be over soon.”
She almost lied—said she was at a friend’s. The passion had long faded; all that remained was habit. He’d divorced years ago, but still lived with his ex—for their daughter’s sake, he claimed.
She sighed, said yes, and started dinner.
Daniel arrived with a gift bag. “Just in case I can’t see you over the holidays. Work’s mad, year-end reports, promised my girl I’d take her to the pantomime…”
She barely listened but brightened at the gift—red lingerie and a velvet box with a gold heart pendant.
“Thank you!” She kissed his cheek.
He pulled her towards the bedroom.
It was nice, but fleeting. Afterwards, as he dressed, she asked suddenly, “How old is your daughter?”
He froze, mid-trouser leg, eyes rolling upward as if the answer were on the ceiling. His other leg—pale, hairy, in a black sock—looked grotesque, like plucked chicken skin. She turned away, wondering what she ever saw in him.
“Ten, I think. Yeah, ten,” he said finally.
She remembered being ten—skinny, pigtailed, abandoned by her father at seven. Pity for his daughter prickled her.
When he left, she shoved the sheets into the wash and stood under the shower. *No more. Let him stay with his family.*
The next day, refreshed, she shopped for her mother’s gift—knitting yarn bought, boots next. Lost in thought, she stepped onto a crossing without looking.
Horns blared. She barely flinched, tears streaking her cheeks as she reached the pavement.
“You’re crying. Did someone die?” A man blocked her path. “Only grief makes someone risk their life like that.”
Confused, she let him lead her into a café.
“Your hands are freezing.” He ordered coffee, then wine.
She sipped, warmth spreading.
“Better. Now, what’s wrong? Husband trouble?” He’d slipped into informality.
Without realising, she spilled her life—Daniel, her knitting mother, the loneliness.
Henry—as he introduced himself—listened intently.
“You’re every man’s dream. Gorgeous, domestic, knits. Most pretty girls just club-hop and shop.”
She smiled—first genuinely in ages.
He walked her home, promising flowers and a fresh start.
They celebrated New Year’s together—and as the saying goes, how you start is how you’ll go on. By April, they married.
Months later, strolling in the park, Olivia spotted Daniel with his wife and daughter—both stout, alike as peas.
Henry returned with ice creams. “You’re so beautiful, men can’t help staring.” He kissed her cheek. She smiled, not looking back.
Come winter, their son arrived. Next New Year’s, her mother visited, arms full of knitwear—tiny jumpers, booties, hats.
Pushing the pram one day, Olivia saw Emma with her bear-clumsy daughter. Proudly, she showed off her son.
Walking home, she grinned. Soon, she’d undress and smother her long-awaited joy, cook dinner, and wait for Henry.
What more could a woman want?
