Happiness in the Palm of Her Hand
Lorraine studied herself in the mirror—narrow face, a prominent nose, thin lips, and cold, steel-grey eyes. Why did she have to be such an eyesore? At least her hair was nice—thick, jet-black, and long, with a fringe that dangled right over her eyes.
“You take after your father. And he was handsome—why else would I have fallen for him? He had Cornish roots,” her mum would reassure her. “When you’re older, you’ll realise you’ve got refined beauty. Not everyone will appreciate it, of course.”
Lorraine didn’t remember her father. He’d left when she was barely two. What she did recall was Uncle Roy—a jolly, red-faced chap who’d toss her in the air and laugh, always turning up with sweets, gingerbread, or some cheap toy. She’d loved perching on his knee as a child, breathing in his scent—expensive cigarettes and whisky, her mum later explained. Back then, her mum had seemed happy around him. Even now, Lorraine associated that smell with what a proper man ought to be.
When she got older, she asked why they never married.
“He was already taken. Had a son,” her mum said, her voice tinged with melancholy, even years later.
Then came Uncle Vince. But Lorraine had evicted him herself. He smelled of petrol and old socks—stocky, small, with a lumpy nose and a perpetually slack jaw that left his mouth half-open. Droopy eyes gave him a permanently mournful look, and he rarely smiled. He always arrived with a bottle of wine or whisky and a bar of chocolate.
“What’s dinner without a drink? Helps unwind after a hard day’s work,” he’d say, catching Lorraine’s disapproving glare at twelve years old.
At first, her mum only sipped. Then she took to it—buying a bottle for dinner herself. If Vince didn’t show, she drank alone at the kitchen table, crying. Lorraine wasn’t a child—she knew where this was headed.
One day, while her mum was out, she cornered Vince.
“Uncle Vince, are you married?”
He blinked rapidly, caught off guard.
“How’d you know?”
“Leave. Now,” she demanded.
“Since when do you call the shots, you little madam? I’m here for your mum, not you!”
“You *are* here for me. And I don’t like you. Go—or I’ll tell your wife everything.”
Whether he was scared or not didn’t matter. He never came back. Her mum wept, drank, waited.
“Enough. If you don’t stop, I’ll walk out. Understand?” Lorraine snatched the bottle and poured it down the sink.
Her mum sobbed, blamed her for ruining her love life. But she quit drinking. Once a striking redhead, she’d drawn men effortlessly. Age had dulled her shine—thinning, greying hair—and suitors dwindled, to Lorraine’s relief, then vanished entirely.
After school, Lorraine enrolled in teacher training college.
“With *your* looks—perfect,” her mum once snipped.
She met Daniel at a student festival. He was easygoing, interesting, steady—never pushing for more than she was ready to give. She grew used to his quiet presence.
When, in their second year, he nervously proposed, she said they were too young—students with no money.
“Don’t be daft. With *your* face and temperament, you won’t find another. He doesn’t drink, he’s decent—what more d’you want?” her mum sighed.
So Lorraine said yes.
Their post-wedding life unfolded in Daniel’s tiny flat—cramped kitchen, thin walls, his widowed mum next door. Privacy was nonexistent. They rushed intimacy, terrified of being overheard. Lorraine couldn’t imagine bringing a child into such a space.
His mum ruled the kitchen, shooing Lorraine away. “Plenty of time for cooking later!”
Money was tight. Daniel took night shifts as a warehouse guard—two on, two off. Lorraine dreamed of moving to London after graduation, like most did. But Daniel refused—he wouldn’t leave his mum.
Even when his mum visited her sister, old habits held.
“Let’s get a mortgage,” Lorraine begged. “We could visit your mum daily—just *live* separately!”
“And spend my whole wage on rent? No. We’ll wait.”
Then came a teachers’ conference in Manchester. Lorraine relished the break. Among the sea of women vying for attention, one man stood out—Archie Lancaster. The others preened; Lorraine just laughed at their theatrics.
Bored mid-session, she slipped out. Archie followed.
“Rubbish, isn’t it? Fancy ditching this for a walk?”
She agreed.
April showers lashed the Irwell. They never returned to the conference—instead, they toured the city in his car. And in a backstreet, it happened. Cramped, awkward, feverish.
She stayed the night.
“Leave that misery,” Archie urged later. “What’s keeping you?”
He was divorced; his ex had remarried and moved to Canada.
“Why me?” Lorraine asked.
“Why *not*? You’re extraordinary—like some exotic bird. The rest? Walking rulebooks.”
She promised to think it over.
On the train home, dread set in. That night, Daniel was restrained—happy she’d returned but distant. She braced for an awkward reunion, but he left for work.
Archie’s spacious flat haunted her. She broached the mortgage again. Daniel pleaded patience.
“I can’t do this anymore! We’re like *siblings*! We’ll *never* have our own place!” she hissed.
“I knew this was coming. I don’t blame you,” he said quietly.
The next day, she took unpaid leave and fled to Manchester. Archie was thrilled—but reality bit fast. She missed Daniel’s jokes, their shared silences. Cooking proved a disaster (burnt potatoes, mushy pasta), so they ate out constantly—another reminder of her mistake.
One sleepless night, her phone rang.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Ran off, did you? Left your husband? Knew you would—just like your father.”
“You rang at 3 a.m. for *this*?”
“Daniel’s in hospital. Armed robbery at the warehouse—he hit the alarm, but they shot him.”
“Alive?” she shrieked, forgetting Archie beside her.
“Barely. In a coma.”
She dressed in a frenzy.
“Wait till morning—I’ll drive you!” Archie pleaded.
“No. Call a taxi.”
She raced to the hospital, begged her way in. Daniel was pale, tubed, still. She clutched his hand, weeping apologies until staff gave up trying to quiet her.
Exhaustion pulled her under.
“Lorrie? That you?” a weak voice murmured.
She bolted upright. “Danny! You’re awake—DOCTOR!”
His mum arrived later—no reproach, just tearful relief.
After discharge, Lorraine visited her own mother—and found Uncle Roy there, sheepish.
“Your mum and I… I’m finally divorced.”
His ex had kept their London flat. “Thought you and Daniel could have it,” her mum said.
For the first time, they talked—mother and daughter, no barbs.
Life mended. Daniel healed slowly—the bullet had missed his heart by a hair.
On their first night in the new flat, Lorraine hesitated.
“Lie down. I’ll take the sofa—you must be sore.”
“Not sore. Just ashamed.”
“Forgive me?” she whispered.
“Forgive *me*?” He pulled her close.
Happiness was like that—chased, elusive, then found curled in your palm all along.
Three months later, she was pregnant—panicking it might be Archie’s.
“Too early,” the doctor assured. “Tell your husband and stop worrying.”
