**Happiness in the Palm of My Hand**
I stared at myself in the mirror—long face, sharp nose, thin lips, and those cold, pale gray eyes. Why did I have to be so plain? The only thing I liked was my hair—thick, dark, and running down my back. I wore a heavy fringe that nearly covered my eyes.
“You take after your father. He was handsome, or else I wouldn’t have fallen for him. His roots were in Cornwall,” Mum would say, trying to reassure me. “You’ll grow into your beauty. Not everyone will see it, but it’s there.”
I never knew my father. He left before I turned two. But I remembered Uncle Jack—a cheerful, red-faced man who’d toss me in the air and laugh. He always brought sweets, gingerbread, or some cheap toy. I loved climbing onto his lap as a child, breathing in his scent—expensive cigars and whisky, Mum later told me. She seemed happy with him around, lighter somehow. Even now, I remember that smell—it was the smell of a real man, I thought.
When I got older, I asked Mum why they never married.
“He was already taken. Had a son,” she said, and even years later, her voice still carried that ache.
Then there was Uncle Mike. But I got rid of him myself. He smelled of petrol and old socks—short, scrawny, with a potato nose and a slack lower lip that left his mouth half-open. His sad, downturned eyes made him look permanently mournful. He rarely smiled. Always brought wine or whisky and a bar of chocolate.
“What’s dinner without a drink? Helps unwind after a long day,” he’d say, ignoring my twelve-year-old glare.
At first, Mum barely touched it. Then she got hooked. Started buying bottles herself. If Uncle Mike didn’t show, she’d drink alone at the kitchen table, crying. I wasn’t stupid—I knew where this was headed.
One day, when Mum was out, I sat across from him.
“Uncle Mike, are you married?”
He blinked rapidly. “How’d you know that?”
“Go back to your wife. Right now.”
“Who put you in charge, you little brat? I came to see your mother, not you.”
“That means me too. And I don’t like you. Leave, or I’ll tell your wife everything.”
Whether he was scared or not, I never saw him again. Mum cried, drank, waited.
“Enough. If you don’t stop, I’m leaving. Understand?” I grabbed the bottle and poured it down the sink.
She sobbed, blamed me, said I’d ruined her chances at happiness. But she stopped drinking. Once, she’d been a striking redhead—men noticed her. Now, age had dulled her shine, her hair thinning, streaked with gray. Fewer men came by, much to my relief, until none did at all.
After school, I went to teacher’s college.
“With looks like yours, it’s the safest path,” Mum said bitterly once.
I met Daniel at a university event. He was steady, kind—never pushed for more than I wanted. We just… existed together. When he proposed in our second year, I hesitated.
“Think carefully. With your face and temper, you won’t find another,” Mum warned. “He’s decent, doesn’t drink, from a good family… Don’t be stupid.”
So I said yes.
After a quiet wedding, we moved into his tiny flat—cramped kitchen, narrow hallway, paper-thin walls. His father had died of a heart attack two years prior, and Daniel wouldn’t leave his mother alone.
At night, I couldn’t relax knowing she was just beyond the wall, hearing everything. We moved quickly, quietly. The thought of children in that space was impossible. Mornings, I avoided eye contact.
His mother ruled the kitchen, and no one minded. When I offered to help, she’d shoo me away: “Plenty of time for you to learn. Let me take care of my boy and his wife while I can.”
Money was tight—two student grants and her pension barely covered bills. Daniel took a night job as a warehouse guard, two nights on, two off. I didn’t mind. I dreamed of moving to London after graduation—most did. But he refused. Wouldn’t leave his mother.
Even when she visited her sister for a few days, we kept our rushed, silent routine.
“Let’s get a mortgage,” I begged. “Visit her every day, but live alone.”
“And spend my whole salary on rent? Be patient. We’ll manage.”
Then came the teaching conference in Edinburgh. A break from lessons, Daniel, the flat… Mostly women there, all preening whenever handsome Alasdair MacKenzie walked in. I laughed at their desperation—until he slipped out mid-lecture and sat beside me.
“Boring, isn’t it? Fancy seeing the city instead?”
I agreed. April showers drenched the streets, the North Sea churning under gray skies.
“Edinburgh weather—changeable as a woman’s mood,” he joked.
We didn’t return to the conference. Drove everywhere, saw everything. Then it happened in a quiet alley—awkward, hurried, but I was used to that. I stayed the night.
Next morning, we walked in late. The other women’s eyes stabbed: “Him? With *her*?”
When the conference ended, I lingered, lied to Daniel—”Caught the flu, back soon”—even coughed for effect.
“Leave that life. What’s keeping you?” Alasdair asked when I confessed my marriage.
He’d been married too, briefly. His ex-wife had taken their daughter to Australia.
“Why me?” I asked.
“You’re different. Exotic. The rest are rulebooks in human form. You belong onscreen.”
“I can’t just walk away… but I’ll think about it.”
The whole trip home, I debated. Then the flat swallowed me again. Daniel was glad I was back but distant. That night, I dreaded his touch—but he left for work. I slept properly for the first time in days.
Remembering Alasdair’s spacious flat, I brought up the mortgage again. Again, Daniel said wait.
“I can’t do this anymore. We’re like siblings. You won’t change anything. We’ll never have our own place. Never. How could we raise a child here? I’m running out of time—”
“I knew this was coming,” he said quietly. “You came back different.”
Next day, I took unpaid leave and went to Edinburgh. Alasdair was thrilled—but I soon realized my mistake. He was tender, but I missed Daniel’s jokes, our quiet talks. Years together had woven him into me.
Alasdair didn’t get it. Got angry when I worried about Daniel. Nights, I lay awake. No relationship was perfect… but I couldn’t adjust to Alasdair’s presence in that big bed.
Worse, I couldn’t cook. Burnt potatoes, mushy pasta—Daniel’s mother had done it all.
Alasdair skipped breakfast, lunched at work, took me out evenings. Every meal out hammered home my mistake.
One sleepless night, weighing guilt against that cramped flat, my phone rang.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Ran off, did you? Left your husband? Knew you would. Just like your father.”
“Did you call at midnight to say that?”
“No. Daniel’s in hospital. Thieves hit the warehouse. He triggered the alarm, but they shot him.”
“Alive?” I shouted, forgetting Alasdair beside me.
“For now. Coma. At the Royal Infirmary.”
“What’s happening?” Alasdair mumbled.
I dressed in a frenzy. “I have to go.”
“Wait till morning. I’ll drive—”
“Now.”
I flew out at dawn, took a taxi from the airport, two hours on a stifling train. Beat the sunrise to the hospital. They wouldn’t let me in. Not yet.
“Please, he’s my husband—” I begged the nurse until she relented.
Inside, I saw him—pale, bandaged, wires everywhere. His limp hand in mine, I pressed my cheek to it. “I’m here. I came back. Forgive me. Just live.”
Staff tried pulling me away, gave up when I promised to stay quiet.
Hours later, exhausted, I dozed off against his arm—
“Ellie? That you?”
“He’s awake!” I screamed down the hall.
His mother arrived later. I braced for anger, but she just wept, apologizing to us both—no blame, just fear for her son.
After, I visited Mum. Found her with Uncle Jack.
“Your mother and I… finally got things sorted,” he said, grinning.
“Mum! I’m happy for you.”
“His ex moved to Newcastle. Left their flat. We thought you and Daniel could have it.”
I hugged her—properly, for the first time in years.
Life smoothed**”When our daughter was born nine months later with Daniel’s same steady blue eyes, I finally understood what real happiness felt like—not something chased, but something quietly held, like a heartbeat in the dark.”**
