One Step from Happiness
Polly had been pretty since childhood—petite, fair-haired, with a lovely figure and a face to match. After university, she stayed to work in London. Yet her love life never quite took off. Men noticed her, but none ever proposed. Now she was nearly thirty.
At first, she joked there was no rush—she had time. But then she grew sad. Time, after all, was a fickle friend.
“Maybe someone cursed you? Think—did you ever cross anyone?” her mother’s friend asked last New Year’s.
“I’ve never crossed anyone, taken what wasn’t mine, or broken up a home,” Polly replied firmly.
“Then someone must’ve envied you badly,” said Aunt Irene with certainty.
Polly didn’t argue. She’d known envy before, even from girls at school. Boys had flocked to her, but she’d focused on studies, saving love for later.
Her mother had raised her alone. They weren’t poor, but they didn’t splurge either. Mum knitted beautifully—delicate, lacy, warm, stylish jumpers in every colour filled Polly’s wardrobe. Some were even sold for extra income.
“Don’t put ideas in her head, Irene! She’s got plenty of suitors—she just shouldn’t rush,” Mum defended her.
“Suitors, yes. But what she needs is a husband—or at least a proper lover,” Irene insisted.
“What’s the difference?” Mum snapped, unwilling to imagine her clever daughter as anyone’s mistress.
“Only the marriage certificate, which matters for any future children. Sometimes a lover’s better than a husband…” And Irene launched into her usual tale of how her lover bought her a flat and paid for her son’s schooling while she kicked out her useless, drunken husband.
Polly decided then—no more New Year’s visits to Mum. She’d had enough of these talks. Better alone. Yet the holiday crept closer.
Polly walked carefully, watching her step to avoid slipping. She moved aside to let a woman with a pram pass.
“Polly!” the woman suddenly cried, stopping. “Don’t you recognise me? It’s Tanya—Tanya Carter now!” she beamed.
“Tanya,” Polly said, forcing a smile. “You look different. Living in London now?”
“Three years already! Fancy running into you like this. I heard you—” Tanya was clearly gearing up for a long chat.
“Yours?” Polly cut in, steering the topic away. Mothers loved boasting about their children. “May I see?”
“Of course! This is my little girl,” Tanya said proudly, her eyes softening.
Polly leaned over the pram, peering under the canopy. Nestled in a cloud of white lace, wearing a pink knitted hat pulled low, was a tiny miracle—long lashes brushing plump cheeks, rosebud lips pursed. The scent of milk, sleep, and wool wafted up.
“Beautiful. Does she look like her dad?”
“Oh, yes! When she was born—” Tanya began eagerly.
“Sorry, I’m in a rush. We’ll catch up another time,” Polly said, hurrying off.
Her mood soured. *Of all people to bump into in this huge city.* Back in school, Tanya had been a plain little mouse—now married, settled in London, with a baby. Happiness practically oozed from her. *And where’s mine? Years pass, and I’m still alone…*
Lost in thought, she reached home. She’d decorated her tree a week ago, but now it just annoyed her—another reminder of the holiday she’d spend alone.
She’d just changed and put the kettle on when her phone rang. It was William.
“Home already, love? I’ll be over soon,” he said.
She almost lied, said she was at a friend’s—anything to avoid him. The passion had long faded; only habit remained. He’d divorced years ago, and Polly wasn’t the reason, but he still shared a flat with his ex—for their daughter’s sake, he claimed.
She sighed, said she was home, and started dinner. Half an hour later, William arrived with a gift bag.
“Here, love. In case I don’t see you before New Year’s. Got the office party, year-end reports, promised my girl I’d take her to see the Christmas lights…”
Polly barely listened but perked up at the gift—a set of red lingerie and a velvet box holding a gold heart pendant.
“Thank you!” She kissed his cheek. “It’s lovely.”
“I won’t stay for dinner—sorry, forgot to say earlier,” he said, pulling her toward the bedroom…
It was nice. But not enough. Afterward, he dressed quickly while Polly sat wrapped in a sheet.
“How old’s your daughter?” she asked suddenly.
William froze, trousers in hand, eyes rolling up as if searching for the answer on the ceiling. One leg was already in; the other, still bare, looked strangely pale and chicken-like under black socks. *Had his legs always been this off-putting?* she wondered.
“Ten, I think. Yeah, ten,” he said, pulling on the other leg.
Polly remembered herself at ten—a skinny thing with braids and big eyes. Her father had left when she was seven. Suddenly, she pitied William’s daughter.
When he finally left, she bundled the sheets into the wash and stood under the shower. *No more. Enough. Let him live with his family.*
On her day off, she slept in, had breakfast, and headed out to shop for Mum’s gift. She’d visit after New Year’s—already bought yarn, but maybe boots? They wore the same size. Walking, she replayed yesterday’s encounter.
*Even plain little Tanya’s married. I’d make a good wife—I can cook, knit. Imagine the lovely things I’d make for my child… Why does happiness skip some of us? I don’t want a model or a millionaire—just a decent man who’ll stay and love me. Is that too much?*
She stepped onto the crossing without checking the light. Horns blared as cars screeched to a halt. Polly walked on, head down, shoulders hunched. She made it across—then realised tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“You’re crying! What’s wrong? Did someone die?” A man blocked her path. “Only grief makes someone risk their life like that.”
She stared blankly.
“Right. Come on.” He ushered her into a café, ordered coffee, and rubbed her icy hands.
Once warmed, he asked, “Fight with your husband?”
She hadn’t noticed the wine glasses until he raised his. She sipped, feeling lighter.
“That’s better. I’m Edward.”
“Polly.”
“Really? That was my mum’s name. Care to talk?”
Before she knew it, she’d spilled everything—William, Mum’s knitting, turning thirty alone.
Edward listened, then said, “You’re every bloke’s dream. Pretty, practical, can knit. Most beauties only know clubs and shopping. Dump that loser.”
“I already have. He’s got a kid.”
“Good. Forget the past. I’ve got my own stories… Another time. Come on, I’ll walk you home. Then, properly, I’ll bring flowers, and we’ll start fresh.”
They spent New Year’s together—and as they say, how you greet it is how you’ll live it. They visited Mum, married by April.
One May day, strolling in the park, Polly spotted William with his stout wife and equally stout daughter. She looked away, searching for Edward. He was hurrying back with two ice creams.
“You’re so stunning, men can’t help staring,” he said, kissing her cheek. She smiled but didn’t look back.
By next winter, their son arrived. New Year’s was now a family affair—Mum came, arms laden with tiny knitted blues and whites.
Once, pushing the pram, Polly ran into Tanya leading her bear-cub of a daughter in pink. Proudly, she showed off her son.
Heading home, Polly smiled. Soon she’d undress and smother her long-awaited joy in kisses, cook dinner, and wait for Edward. What more did a woman need?
