You Just Don’t Realise What Happiness Is — Half a million quid? — Carina stared at the notification on her phone, rereading it three times before the numbers made any sense. — You took out a loan for half a million pounds? Dmitry was slouched on the sofa, glued to his smartphone, not bothering to look up. — Oh, that… Yeah, just a bit, for Mum’s new kitchen. You know her pipes leak, the floor’s warped, and the wallpaper’s peeling… — Wait. — Carina sank onto the armchair; her legs wouldn’t keep her up. — You took out a loan. Half a million. And gave it all to your mother. Without saying a word to me? Dmitry finally tore himself from his phone, genuine confusion on his face, as if she’d asked something utterly normal. — Carina, it’s Mum. She’s on her own, her pension’s rubbish. Who else is going to help? — You could have talked to me! — Carina found herself shouting, unable to stop. — Asked my opinion? At least warned me? — You’d just argue — Dmitry shrugged — and Mum needed it fast. Four years. Four years tolerating this woman: the nightly calls to check what Dima had for tea, the unannounced visits criticising the flat’s cleanliness, the family dinners where Carina always ended up at the far end of the table. — Don’t make a drama out of nothing, Dmitry said, calm as ever. — We’ll cope. Pay off quick, it’s not much. It’s family. Hot, angry tears spilled over as Carina wiped them away, smudging mascara down her cheeks. — Family? Am I—family? Or just an accessory? Remember when your mother decided we needed a new car and you sold ours without asking? When she dumped my stuff out of the guest room because she couldn’t “sleep among strangers’ clutter”? Or when, on my birthday, you both left to buy her a new fridge? — All small things — Dmitry waved a hand. — You’re tired, that’s all. You need a break. She looked at this man — tall, gentle features, the dimples she’d once found charming. Now he seemed little more than a thirty-year-old child, unable to cut the cord. — We’ll manage — he repeated, mantra-like. — Love conquers all. Carina got up and left for the bedroom. Her two big duffel bags were still on the top shelf from when she first moved in. She dragged them down, threw them onto the bed, and began opening drawers. Dmitry appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, first bag crammed full. — What are you doing? Carina, don’t be silly. You’re not serious? She didn’t answer. Methodically stacked jumpers, jeans, underwear. Picked the jewellery box off the shelf — gifts from friends and family, nothing from him. — Where will you go? To your mum’s? She’s in Manchester! Zipped up the second bag. Checked her handbag — passport, cards, keys to her mum’s place, just in case. — Carina, say something! You can’t leave me. I love you! She held his gaze for a long moment. Then lifted the bags and walked out. …Next morning, Carina was in the registry office queue, divorce papers clutched tight. Rain drizzled outside, grey clouds sagged over rooftops, but inside she felt a strange peace. The decision was made. The first call came at half past two that night. Carina jolted awake on her friend Lena’s sofa, confused about where she was. — We need to talk — Dmitry’s breath was quick, words tumbling. — I understand now, I’ll change. Please, give me a chance. She hung up. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. — Carina, I can’t live without you. You’re the meaning of my life. By morning, there were forty-three messages. Each one— long, overflowing with tearful confessions, promises, threats. “If you don’t come back, who knows what I’ll do.” “Mum says you’re just being silly.” “I’ll wait for you forever.” A week on, he started turning up outside her office. Carina would leave for lunch and spot his familiar shape by the coffee shack across the road. Heading for the Tube after work, she’d see him shadowing her from the other side of the street. — Just passing by — Dmitry would smile when challenged. — Missed you, wanted to see you. One evening at Lena’s, the doorbell buzzed. Carina, expecting the pizza delivery, didn’t look through the peephole. Standing there was Dmitry, clutching a bouquet of red roses. — One more chance — he whispered. — That’s all I ask. She closed the door, silent. He stood outside for two hours, until the neighbours threatened to call the police. She learned to live with it — like people live with a dull ache. Not reading messages, not answering unknown calls, not turning around in the street. Switched jobs to remote working in a new firm, moved to a quiet outer suburb where Dmitry would never “accidentally” show up. Divorce went through three months later. Carina exited the court holding the official papers, bursting into tears on the steps — not out of grief, but relief. At first, freedom was terrifying in its emptiness. She’d always checked every decision with someone, even though that someone did whatever he liked anyway. Now she could buy any yoghurt she wanted, not caring whether Yelena Viktorovna approved. Watch any film, without hearing “decent women don’t watch that sort of thing.” She could breathe. She signed up for English classes — an old dream, dismissed by Dmitry as “a waste of money.” Started yoga at dawn, before the city woke. Spent a weekend in Brighton, alone, wandering the lanes, tasting fudge, eating chips on the pier. Six months later, the calls stopped. The messages too. Carina waited for something else to go wrong, but as months passed she dared to relax. Landed a job at a vibrant marketing agency — bright office, young team, creative work. Life was looking up. …She met Andrew at the office Christmas party, coaxed there by her colleague Maddy. — This is our head developer — Maddy introduced a tall, bespectacled bloke. — Andrew, this is Carina from marketing. He shook her hand — firm, but gentle. His smile was effortless, not trying to impress. — You avoiding karaoke too? — he nodded toward the HR manager butchering “Wonderwall” on stage. — Saving my nerves — Carina grinned. They talked all evening — about books, travel, and the strangeness of life. Andrew listened more than he talked. Asked questions and waited for answers, never lecturing or instructing. When he heard she’d been divorced, he just nodded and changed the topic. …Within six months they’d moved in together, choosing a flat in town — small, sunny, high ceilings and a view of a tranquil courtyard. — Are you sure you like this place? — Carina asked as they checked it before signing the lease. — Shall we look at a few more? — Do you like it? — Andrew replied. — Yes, I love it. — Then let’s take it. Such little things — having her opinion heard — mattered more than any big talk of love. He proposed on their rooftop at sunset, sky streaked pink and gold. Opened a tiny box to reveal a sparkling diamond ring. — I’m rubbish at speeches — Andrew confessed. — But I want to wake up next to you every day. If you’re willing to put up with my snoring and terrible taste in coffee. Carina laughed through tears, and nodded. …That May evening began as usual. Andrew stayed late at the office — impossible deadline, some code gone haywire. Carina made pasta, humming with the radio, when the buzzer rang: sharp, urgent, demanding. She peered through the spyhole — and recoiled. Dmitry was outside. Pallid, tired eyes, crumpled shirt. Two years. Two years of silence, and now here he was. — Carina, open up! — his fist hammered the door. — I know you’re in! We need to talk! She snatched her phone, dialled Andrew. Engaged. — We love each other! — Dmitry shouted through the door. — You can’t be with someone else! It’s not right! The door shook — he was trying to force it. Carina pressed her back against it, braced her feet. — Go away! — she yelled. — I’ll call the police! — You’re my wife! — his voice shrilled. — You were mine, you will be! I waited two years for this! Two years! — We’re divorced! It’s over! — It’s never over! — another slam, Carina barely keeping the door shut. — I’ve changed! Mum says you just don’t realise what happiness is! Open up, let’s talk! She could see his face twisted in the spyhole — wild, possessed. Not the man she’d once shared a bed with. She dialled 999. — Dmitry! One call and the police are here. Leave. Now. He froze. A few moments of silence. Then swiftly turned and stomped downstairs. The front door slammed below. Carina slid to the floor, ears ringing. Half an hour later she managed to stand and call Andrew. The next day, she filed a police report. The community officer — an older gent with a grey moustache — took it all down, nodded. — We’ll sort it. Have a word. Whatever he said to Dmitry, Carina never discovered. But her ex never appeared or contacted her again. No calls, no messages, no shadow on her doorstep. …They held their wedding in early June, at a cosy country restaurant — twenty close friends, no fuss, no awkward in-laws demanding traditions. Carina stood opposite Andrew in a simple white dress, squeezing his warm hands in hers. Outside, birch trees whispered, the scent of flowers and fresh-cut grass drifted in. — Do you… — the officiant began. — I do — Carina cut in, making the guests laugh. Andrew slid the ring onto her finger — slim gold band, engraved inside. Three words: “Always with you.” She looked up at the man who would be her husband. Not a mummy’s boy, not a haunted stalker. Just a man who listened, respected, and loved. Ahead lay a life where her voice mattered…

You just dont know your own happiness

Half a million? Catherine read the message on her phone three times, the numbers swirling and sliding around before finally settling. You took out a loan for half a million pounds?

David was buried in his armchair, staring into the glass portal of his mobile, barely acknowledging her presence.

Oh, yes that. Just a small thing. Mum needed to sort out her flat. The pipes burst, the parquets buckled, the wallpapers sagging with damp

Wait, Catherine slumped onto the edge of the settee, legs dissolving beneath her. You actually took out a loan. For half a million. And just handed it all over to your mother? Without a word to me?

David finally surfaced from his screen, his expression brimming with gentle puzzlement, as if she were asking why the rain fell in London.

Cathy, its Mum. Shes on her own, the pensions barely enough for a cup of tea. Who else is there to help?

You could have discussed it with me! Catherines voice ballooned, full and uncontrollable. You could have asked! Or warned me at least!

Youd have only argued, David shrugged softly. She needed help straight away.

For four years, Catherine had endured evening phone calls checking what David had eaten, endured surprise visits spotted with criticism about the flats dust, endured family dinners where his mother rearranged the seating so Catherine sat furthest from anything resembling conversation.

Dont make a mountain out of a molehill, David went on serenely. Well sort it. Its just small potatoes. Thats what family does.

The tears came unbidden hot, stinging, carving tracks through mascara and memory.

Family, you say? Am I family? Or just an afterthought? Remember when your mother decided we should upgrade the car, and you sold it without asking me? Or when she threw my things out of the guest room because it was uncomfortable sleeping among strange clutter? Or the time you took her shopping for a fridge on my birthday?

Thats all trivial stuff, David waved her off. Youre just tired, love. You need a rest.

She looked at the man tall, soft-featured, with dimples shed once found adorable. Now she saw only a thirty-something boy clinging tight to his mothers apron strings.

Well manage, he repeated, as though willing the words to reweave their spell. Love conquers all.

Catherine wordlessly got up and walked to the bedroom. On top of the wardrobe sat two massive sports bags the same shed once carried into this life. She pulled them down, let them thud onto the bed, and began opening doors and drawers.

Twenty minutes later, David appeared in the doorway just as the first bag was packed solid.

What are you doing? Catherine, this is daft. Youre not serious?

She didnt answer. Methodically, she folded jumpers, jeans, underwear. Gathered a jewellery box gifts from friends and parents, nothing of his.

Where are you going to go? To your mums? Shes all the way up in Manchester!

She zipped the second bag. Double-checked her handbag passport, bank card, keys to her mums flat, kept for a rainy day.

Cathy, say something! You cant just walk out. I love you!

She looked at him, long and quiet. Then picked up the bags and stepped into the corridor.

The next morning, Catherine found herself standing in line at the registry office, fingers gripping the divorce papers. Outside it drizzled, the clouds hanging heavy above the brickwork, but inside was a blooming, peculiar calm. The choice was made.

Her phone rang at half two in the morning. On Lenas sofa, bleary and lost in someone elses flat.

We need to talk, David breathed into the receiver, words stumbling. I get it now. Ill change. Just give me a chance.

She hung up. Twenty minutes later, the ringing began again.

Cathy, I cant do this without you. Youre my everything.

By morning shed received forty-three messages. Each a tangled rope of apology, threat, and weeping invitation.

If you dont come back, I dont know what Ill do.
Mum says youre being childish.
Ill wait for you, always.

Within a week he was appearing by her office. Catherine went for lunch and there hed be, lingering near the sandwich stand. She left for the Tube and spotted him standing, rain-soaked, across the street.

Just passing, hed say with a crooked smile when she demanded an answer. Wanted to see you.

One evening, the doorbell rang at Lenas Catherine, expecting a pizza, opened it without a glance.

David was on the step with a clutch of red roses.

Just once chance, he whispered. Just one. Thats all.

She closed the door in silence. He stayed, hovering like a mournful ghost, until the neighbours threatened to call the police.

She learned to live with it as some learn to live with a limp or a dull ache. Stopped reading messages, wouldnt answer numbers she didnt know, turned her head from old streets. Got a remote job with a new company, moved to a leafy suburb where David could never stray by accident.

Three months later, the divorce was final. Catherine left the courthouse holding the official paper and wept on the steps not for what was lost, but for the cool, bracing relief.

The first weeks of freedom tasted eerily blank. Catherine was used to running every choice past someone even if he always chose his mothers view in the end. Now she could buy any flavour of yoghurt, unfettered by what Mrs Hargreaves might think. Could watch any film, no harping about what decent women watch. Could breathe.

She joined English classes a dream David dismissed as a waste of good money. Started doing yoga in the quiet pre-dawn, while London yawned itself awake. Took a weekend train to Bath just for the thrill of getting lost and eating fudge in the rain.

Six months later, the phone calls and messages dried up. Catherine waited for a twist, another shadow, but none came. She relaxed, rejoined life. Started at a marketing firm a cheery office, young faces, ideas bouncing. The world reassembled itself.

She met Andrew at a work do, dragged there by her mate Mary.

Our head programmer, Mary announced, ushering in a gentle giant whose glasses seemed perpetually askew. Andrew, meet Catherine from marketing.

His handshake was solid, careful. His smile was plain nothing borrowed, nothing for show.

You hiding from karaoke too? he motioned to the stage where the finance director butchering Wonderwall.

Protecting my nerves, Catherine nodded.

They talked for hours of books, of travel, of the oddities of existence. Andrew listened more than he spoke. Asked, waited, never instructed. When she mentioned her divorce, he just nodded and let the conversation drift.

Six months passed, and they moved into a flat in Bloomsbury together small, light, ceilings stretching up, facing a quiet square.

Are you sure you like it? Catherine asked as they toured it before signing.

Do you? Andrew turned to her.

I do. Very much.

Then its ours.

Those little things having her opinion matter meant more than any grand gesture of love.

He proposed on their rooftop under streaks of pink and gold. Produced a tiny box with a ring winking inside.

Im no speech-maker, Andrew admitted, nervous. But I want to wake up with you every day. If youre willing to tolerate my snoring and questionable taste in coffee.

She sobbed, delighted, and said yes

That May evening began ordinarily. Andrew was late at the office, lost to a code that refused to behave. Catherine cooked pasta, humming to the radio, when the buzzer slammed out abrupt, frantic, hungry.

She peered through the spyhole and lurched away.

Standing on the landing was David. Wan, hollow-eyed, shirt crumpled like forgotten laundry. Two years. Two years of silence and here he was.

Cathy! Open up! I know youre in there! We need to talk!

She grabbed her mobile, dialled Andrew. Engaged.

We love each other! Davids voice bled through wood. You shouldnt be with someone else! Its not right!

The door juddered as he threw his weight against it, pounding harder. Catherine pressed her back to the door, feet braced.

Leave! she shouted. Ill call the police!

Youre my wife! You were and always will be! Ive waited two years for you to see sense! Two years!

Were divorced! Its over!

Its never over! Another shove, and the latch groaned. Ive changed! Mum says you just dont understand your own happiness! Please, just talk!

She glimpsed his face through the spyhole distorted, wild, nothing she recognised.

She thumbed three numbers onto her phone.

David! One click and the policell be round. Leave now.

He froze. Utter silence. Then spun and vanished down the stairs, the front door rattling below.

Catherine slid down the wall, dizzy, ears full of shushing static. Half an hour later, she found the strength to ring Andrew.

She made the police report next day. Their local bobby, a silver-mustached veteran, wrote up the details, nodded.

Well have a word. Dont worry.

Whatever was said, David never showed up again. No call, no text, no spontaneous appearance outside.

The wedding happened in early June, at a little countryside pub twenty friends, quiet joy. No fuss, no distant relatives demanding ancient customs.

Catherine stood opposite Andrew in a simple white dress, feeling the warmth of his hands. Outside, silver birches rustled, the air fresh with summer and cut grass.

Do you take the registrar began.

I do, she interrupted, and the guests all laughed.

Andrew slid a slim gold band onto her finger inside, three words engraved: Always with you.

Catherine looked up at the man who was now her husband. Not a mothers boy, not a shadow with a claim. Just someone who listened, respected, loved. Ahead was life, full of her own choices, her own breath, her own possibility.