One Step from Happiness
From the time she was little, Emma had been pretty—petite, blonde, with a lovely face and just the right figure. After finishing university, she stayed to work in London. But her love life never quite came together. She never lacked male attention, yet no one ever asked her to marry. And now, she was nearly thirty.
At first, she joked that there was no rush—she had time. But then, the loneliness crept in. Time, as they say, is a sly old thing.
“Maybe someone cursed you? Think, did you ever cross anyone’s path?” her mum’s friend Linda asked one New Year’s Eve.
“I’ve never wronged anyone, never took what wasn’t mine, never broke up a family,” Emma replied firmly.
“Then someone must’ve been terribly jealous,” Linda said with certainty.
Emma didn’t argue. Jealousy wasn’t unfamiliar—even from schoolgirls. Boys had always flocked to her. She did well in her studies, leaving love for later.
Her mother raised her alone. They never struggled, but they weren’t lavish either. Her mum knitted beautifully—delicate, lacy, warm, fluffy, stylish cardigans in every colour. Emma had more than she could count. Her mum sold them too.
“Don’t say such things, Linda! She’s got plenty of suitors. No need to rush,” her mother defended her.
“Exactly—suitors. What she needs is a husband, or at least a decent lover,” Linda shot back.
“What’s the difference?” her mum snapped.
The thought of her clever girl being someone’s mistress made her furious.
“Only a stamp in a passport, which matters for a child’s future. Some lovers are better than husbands…” And Linda launched into her hundredth tale of how her lover bought her a flat, paid for her son’s education, while her useless, drunken husband got the boot.
Emma decided then—no more New Year’s trips home. These conversations exhausted her. Better alone.
Yet, New Year’s Eve crept closer.
Emma walked carefully, watching her step to avoid slipping. She moved aside to let a woman with a pram pass.
“Emma!” the woman gasped, stopping abruptly. “Don’t you recognise me? It’s Sarah—Sarah Bennett now!” she beamed.
“Sarah,” Emma forced a smile. “You look different. Living in London now? How long?”
“Three years! Fancy running into you like this. I heard you—” Sarah was clearly gearing up for a long chat.
“Yours?” Emma cut in, steering away from personal questions. Mums loved bragging about their babies. “May I see?”
“Of course! My little girl.” Sarah’s voice glowed with pride.
Emma leaned over the pram. Nestled in white lace, under a pink knitted hat, slept a tiny miracle. Long lashes rested on plump cheeks, lips pursed like a bow. The sweet scent of milk, sleep, and wool wafted up.
“Beautiful. Looks like her dad?” Emma asked.
“Oh, yes! When she was born—” Sarah began eagerly.
“Sorry, I’m in a rush. We’ll catch up another time,” Emma lied, hurrying off.
Her mood soured. “Of all people—her. In school, she was a plain little thing, hardly noticed. And look at her now—married, living in London, with a baby. Happiness practically spills out of her. Where’s mine? Years pass, and I’m still alone…”
Lost in thought, she reached home. She’d decorated the Christmas tree a week ago. At first, it brought joy—now it just annoyed her. A reminder that the holidays were coming, and she’d be alone.
Just as she changed and put the kettle on, her phone blared—James was calling.
“You home, darling? I’ll be over soon,” he said.
She almost told him she wasn’t, that she’d stop by a friend’s—anything to avoid him. The passion had long fizzled. What remained was just habit. He’d been divorced for years—Emma hadn’t caused it—but he still lived with his ex, “for their daughter’s sake.”
Emma sighed, said she was home, and went to cook. James arrived half an hour later with a gift bag.
“Here, love. Just in case I don’t see you before New Year’s. Work’s mad, year-end reports, promised my daughter I’d take her to the pantomime…”
She didn’t care about his excuses. But the gift pleased her—a red lace lingerie set and a velvet box holding a gold heart-shaped pendant.
“Thank you!” She kissed his cheek. Her mood lifted.
“Can’t stay for dinner. Sorry, should’ve warned you,” he murmured, pulling her to the bedroom.
It was nice. But fleeting. James kissed her tenderly, gratefully. Then dressed to leave.
“How old is your daughter?” Emma asked suddenly, wrapped in a sheet.
He froze, trousers in hand, eyes rolling upward as if searching for the answer. One leg was already in. Then she noticed the other—pale, hairless, sickly blue skin in a black sock. It looked revolting, cold, like plucked chicken skin. She turned away, regretting the question. What did she ever see in him? Once, she’d have married him if he’d asked.
“Ten, I think. Yeah, ten,” he said, pulling up his trousers.
She remembered herself at ten—thin as a twig, with pigtails and wide eyes. Her dad left when she was seven. She pitied James’s daughter.
When he finally left, she dumped the sheets in the wash and stepped under the shower. “No more. Enough. Let him live with his family.”
On her day off, she slept in, breakfasted, then went shopping for her mum’s gift. She’d visit New Year’s Day, after all. She’d already bought knitting yarn, but maybe boots—they wore the same size. Walking, she remembered Sarah.
“Even plain little Sarah got married. I’d be a good wife—I cook, I knit. Imagine all the lovely things I’d make for my baby… Why does happiness find some and skip others? I don’t want a millionaire, just a decent man who’ll stay, who’ll love me. Is that too much to ask?”
Distracted, she stepped onto the crossing without checking the light.
Horns blared, brakes screeched. Emma walked on, shoulders hunched, ignoring it all. She made it across, tears streaking 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.”
Emma stared blankly.
“Right. Come on.” He ushered her into a café.
Numb, she sat, hugging her coffee cup for warmth.
“Cold hands. We’ll fix that.” He ordered, and soon steaming drinks appeared.
“So why the tears? Husband trouble?” He switched to a familiar tone.
She didn’t notice—or the wine appearing.
“Drink up, warm you faster.” He took a sip. She followed. Warmth spread through her.
“That’s better. You’ve got your wits back. I thought something awful happened. I’m Daniel.”
“Emma,” she smiled.
“Really? That was my mum’s name. Want to talk?”
“Nothing to tell. Ran into an old classmate…” Yet, the words spilled out—James, her knitting mum, turning thirty alone.
Daniel listened, patient. Then finished his wine.
“You’re any man’s dream. Pretty, homely, can knit. Most pretty girls only care about clubbing and shopping. Ditch that bloke—”
“I already did. He’s got a daughter.”
“Good. Forget the past. Mine’s messy too—another time.” He checked his watch. “Let’s get you home. Then, properly, I’ll come back with flowers, and we’ll start fresh.”
They saw in the New Year together. And as they say, how you start it is how it goes. They visited her mum. No point delaying—they married in April.
That May, strolling in the park, Emma spotted James—with his stout wife and equally stout daughter, her mirror image. She turned away, searching for Daniel. He hurried over with two ice creams.
“You’re so gorgeous, men can’t help staring,” he said, kissing her cheek. She knew who he meant but didn’t look back.
Next winter, their beautiful son arrived. That New Year’s, they celebrated as four—her mum came, arms full of knitted blue and white baby grows, socks, and hats for her grandson.
Pushing the pram one day, Emma saw Sarah, leading her toddler—a little bear in pink. Proudly, Emma showed off her son.
Walking home, she smiled. Soon, she’d undress and smother her long-awaited happiness with kisses, cook dinner, and wait for Daniel. What more could a woman want?
