ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS? Honestly, I never planned to get married. If not for my future husband’s persistent wooing, I’d still be flying free as a bird. Like a lovesick butterfly, Arthur fluttered around me, never letting me out of his sight, trying to please me and treat me like a queen… Eventually, I surrendered. We tied the knot. Very quickly, Arthur became like family—so familiar, so comfortable. Like slipping into your favourite slippers. A year later, our son, Stan, was born. Arthur worked in another city, and came home once a week, always bringing us special treats. One visit, as usual, I was preparing to wash his things and checked all his pockets—a habit since that one time I washed his driving licence. This time, a folded piece of paper fell from his trousers. I unfolded it—a long list of school supplies (it was August). At the bottom, in childish writing: “Dad, come home soon.” So that’s how my husband entertains himself on the side! Double life! I didn’t throw a tantrum or grab my bag and our not-yet-three-year-old son, and dash off to Mum’s for an extended stay. Mum gave us a room: “Live here until you make up.” I considered taking revenge on my ungrateful husband. I remembered my classmate, Rob—maybe I’ll start a fling with him! Rob never left me alone in school or after. I called: “Hey Rob! Are you married yet?” “Nadia? Hi! Does it matter? Married, divorced… Shall we meet?” My unplanned romance lasted half a year. Arthur brought child support every month, handed it to my mum, and left quietly. I knew Arthur was living with his work colleague, Kate. She had a daughter from her first marriage, and Kate insisted the girl call Arthur “Dad.” They all lived in Arthur’s flat. As soon as Kate heard I’d left, she moved in with her daughter from another town. Kate adored Arthur—she knitted him woolly socks and cosy jumpers, cooked hearty meals. I learned all this later—and have never stopped reminding Arthur about Kate. Back then, though, I thought our marriage was finished—crashed and burned. Then, over coffee discussing our impending divorce, Arthur and I were swept up in fond memories. Arthur confessed his boundless love, apologized, and said he didn’t know how to ask the persistent Kate to leave. I felt unbearably sorry for him—and we got back together. By the way, my husband never learned about Rob. Kate and her daughter left our town for good. Seven years of happy married life went by, then Arthur was involved in a car accident. Operations, rehab, walking with a stick. Recovery took two years, and by the end, Arthur started drinking heavily. He was a shell of himself, lost in his own world. I tried everything, but he exhausted both himself and our son, refused all help. At work, I found a shoulder to cry on in Paul. He listened to me over cigarette breaks, walked me home after work, comforted and encouraged me. Paul was married—his wife was expecting their second child. I’m still not sure how we ended up in bed together—it was madness. He was a head shorter than me, not my type at all! What followed was a whirlwind—Paul took me to exhibitions, concerts, ballets. When his wife had a daughter, he paused all our outings, quit our company, and found another job. Maybe that was his way of letting me go; I didn’t mind, so I let him return to his family. He was just a temporary fix for my pain—I never meant to intrude on another woman’s love. Arthur kept drinking. Five years later, Paul and I would run into each other by chance, and he’d seriously propose marriage! It made me laugh. For a while, Arthur got his act together and took a job in Prague. I was the model wife and caring mum, focused only on my family. Arthur returned after six months—we renovated our flat, bought new appliances, he finally fixed up his car. Life should’ve been wonderful. But Arthur slipped back into drinking. The cycle repeated—his friends carrying him home, me searching the neighbourhood for my wayward husband, dragging him home after finding him sleeping on park benches, pockets turned out. One spring day, I was standing gloomily at a bus stop, birds chirping, sun shining, and I couldn’t care less about April’s joy. Suddenly, a voice murmured: “Maybe I can help with your troubles?” I turned—a handsome man with a delicious scent! And me, 45 at the time! Could I blossom again? I blushed like a schoolgirl, jumped on the bus, and escaped. He waved after me. All day at work I thought of him, and soon, this stranger—George—was waiting for me every morning at the bus stop. I started making sure not to be late, always looking out for him. George, seeing me, would blow me a kiss and smile. One day, he brought a bunch of red tulips. “Where do I go with flowers to work? The girls will guess everything!” George just smiled and gave the bouquet to an old lady watching us. “Thank you, son! May you find a passionate lover!” she said. I blushed hard. At least she didn’t wish him a young mistress—I would’ve died of embarrassment! George continued, “Let’s both be guilty together, Nadia! You won’t regret it.” Honestly, the offer was tempting! At that time, nothing remained with Arthur—he was like a log, lost in drink. George was a teetotal ex-athlete (57), divorced, a fascinating conversationalist. There was something enchanting about him. I threw myself headlong into the affair—three years of passion. Torn between home and George, my soul in turmoil. I had neither the wish nor the strength to stop; though when I finally wanted to end things, I just couldn’t. George completely possessed me—I lost my senses when he was around! But I knew this wouldn’t end well; there was no real love. After a night with George, I wanted nothing more than to hold Arthur—drunk, rough around the edges, but so familiar and safe. There’s truth in “better a dry crust at home than someone else’s feast.” That’s real life. Passion is close to pain, and I yearned to get over George and return to my family, not float away in careless pleasure. My mind knew, but my body didn’t listen. My son was aware of George—he saw us together in a restaurant with his girlfriend. I had to introduce George as a colleague, discussing a new project. “In a restaurant, huh?” Stan nodded, understanding. He never judged me, just asked me not to divorce Dad. “Don’t rush—maybe Dad will pull himself together.” I felt like a lost sheep. My divorced friend urged me to “ditch these lovers and calm down.” She’d been married three times and knew what she was talking about. I listened to her reasoning, but couldn’t stop—for three years, until George tried to raise his hand against me. That was the last straw. My friend had warned me: “The sea is calm till you’re on the shore…” Suddenly, everything cleared—I was free! Three years of torment—finally, peace! George kept trying to win me back, waiting outside, pleading publicly for forgiveness. I was unshakable. My wise friend hugged me and gave me a mug that read, “You got it right!” Arthur, as it turned out, knew everything—George had called and told him. Arthur confessed, “While listening to your admirer, I wanted to die. It was all my fault! I let my wife slip away—traded her for the bottle. What could I say to you?” Ten years have passed. Arthur and I now have two granddaughters. One day, as we sat together, drinking coffee, looking out the window, Arthur gently took my hand: “Nadia, don’t look elsewhere. I’m your happiness! Do you believe me?” “Of course I do, my one and only…”

ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS?

To be honest, I never really planned on getting married. If it hadnt been for the quite insistent pursuit of my future husband, I probably would still be free as a bird. Thomas fluttered around me like a lovesick moth, always eager to please, forever attentive, seemingly determined to erase any doubt in my mind. In the end, I gave in. We got married.

Thomas immediately settled into the role of a proper family man. With him, life was easy, comfortable, familiarlike slipping into your favourite slippers at the end of the day.

A year later, our son Oliver was born. Thomas worked in another town. Hed come home once a week, always laden with treats for Oliver and me. On one of those visits, as usual, I got ready to do his laundry. Habit had me checking all his pockets firstafter that one time when I washed his driving licence!

Now, before every wash, I carefully frisk every lump and bump in each pocket. This time, out of his trousers fell a folded piece of paper. I opened it and read. It was a lengthy list of school supplies (it was August, after all). At the bottom, in a childish scrawl, it said: Daddy, please come home soon.

So thats how my husband entertained himself elsewhere! A double life!

I didnt throw a fit. I grabbed my bag, took Oliver (he was not even three yet) by the hand, and headed off to Mums for a proper visitan extended one. Mum gave us a room.

Stay here until you sort things out, she said.

Thoughts of revenge on my ungrateful husband crept in. My mind drifted to my old schoolmate, Ben. Hed chased after me all through school and afterwards too. So I called him.

Hi Ben! You still single? I asked, as casually as I could.

Sophie? Hello! What does it matterbeen married, been divorced… Fancy meeting up? Ben responded, perking up.

My impromptu romance with Ben lasted half a year. Thomas would arrive each month bearing child support payments for Oliver, always handing them straight over to my mother before leaving without a word.

I knew Thomas was living with Katie Harris. She had a daughter from a previous marriage. Katie insisted her daughter call Thomas Daddy. Once she learned Id moved out, she packed up and moved with her daughter into Thomass flat from her town. She worshipped Thomas, knitted his woolly socks and cosy jumpers, made sure he was well-fed. I found all this out later. Id go on to tease Thomas about Katie Harris for the rest of my days. Back then, though, I was convinced our marriage had run its course, had well and truly crashed.

But when Thomas and I met for coffee to discuss the impending divorce, nostalgia swept over us. Thomas confessed deep and undying love, asked forgiveness, told me he had no idea how to get rid of the persistent Katie.

I suddenly felt desperately sorry for him. So, we reconciled. By the way, Thomas never found out about Ben. Katie and her daughter left our town for good.

Seven very happy years rolled by. Then Thomas had a car accident. Surgeries on his leg, rehabilitation, hobbling around with a walking stickit took two whole years to recover. The ordeal drained him. Thomas began drinking heavily, lost all sense of himself, withdrawing from the world. It was heartbreaking. Pleas made no difference. He tormented himself and us. Any help was flatly refused.

At work, I had a shoulder to cry onPaul Smith. He listened to me in the smoking area, walked me to the bus stop after work, cheered me up. Paul was married; his wife was expecting their second child. To this day, I cant quite fathom how I ended up in bed with him. Madness. Hes a head shorter than me and nothing like my usual type!

And off we went! Paul dragged me to exhibitions, concerts, theatre performances. Once his wife gave birth to a daughter, Paul called time on our adventures. He quit and moved to a different job. Perhaps he figured it was best to keep his distance. I never laid claim to him, so I let him go back to his family without a worry. Paul was just a balm for my wounded soul at the time. I had no intention of barging into someone elses love story.

Thomas continued drinking.

About five years later, Id bump into Paul again by chance. Hed seriously propose marriage. I found it hilarious.

Thomas pulled himself together briefly. He went to work in the Czech Republic. During those months, I kept up appearances as a dutiful wife and loving mum. My thoughts were solely on my family.

When Thomas returned after half a year, we renovated the flat, bought appliances, and he finally fixed up his import car. Life shouldve been bliss. But no! Thomas fell off the wagon and started drinking again. Hellish times returned. His friends would drag him home; he often couldnt walk, sometimes crawling. I would run around our estate chasing after my temporarily incapacitated husbandfinding him dozing on a bench with pockets turned inside out and emptied, dragging him home by myself. Believe me, I saw it all.

One spring day, I was standing gloomily at the bus stop. Around me, birds were chirping, the sun was beaming, tickling me with its raysbut I paid no mind to the April joy. I heard a silky voice whisper:

Perhaps I can help you with your troubles?

I turned. Goodness me! What a dashing and fragrant man! And there I was, already forty-five! Could I really be a catch again? I blushed like a naive girl. Thank heavens, the bus turned up at that moment and I leapt on, fleeing temptation. The man waved as I pulled away. All day at work, my mind was preoccupied by thoughts of him. I played hard to get for a couple of weeksjust for show…

But Edwardthat was his namewas a determined fellow. Every morning, he waited for me at the same bus stop. Soon, I made a habit of being on time, straining to see if he was there. Whenever he spotted me, hed send over a cheeky blown kiss.

Once, he brought a bunch of red tulips. I told him, What am I supposed to do with flowers at work in the morning? The girls will have me figured out in a heartbeat. Ill be guilty without cause.

Edward grinned:

Oh, I hadnt considered such dire consequences.

He immediately handed the bouquet to a nearby granny, whod been watching our performance quite intently. She seemed to light up. Bless you, dear! Hope you find yourself a passionate lover! I blushed at her words. Good thing she didnt wish for a YOUNG loverotherwise, Id have sunk through the pavement!

Edward went on:

Come on, Sophie, lets be guilty together! You wont regret it.

To be honest, it was a tempting and timely offer. Besides, my relationship with Thomas was nonexistent. He mostly lay sprawled on the bed, lost to drink.

Edward turned out to be the picture of healthnot a smoker or drinker, an ex-athlete (fifty-seven years old) and an excellent conversationalist. He was divorced. He possessed a certain magnetic charm.

I plunged headlong into the affair. It was a whirlpool of passion. For three years, I was torn between home and Edward. My soul grew troubled.

Stopping wasnt within my power or wishes. Eventually, when I truly wanted to end things, I still couldnt muster the strength. You know the saying: the maiden drives away the fellow, but he doesnt leave. Edward had complete command of my heart and body. As the old saying goes, when you fall hook, line, and sinkeryou stop thinking straight. Every time Edward was near, Id lose my breath. It was madness! Deep down, I knew nothing good would come of this. There wasnt love for Edward.

After coming home exhausted (after a heated rendezvous), all I wanted was to snuggle up to my husbandeven if he was sloshed, smelling foul, he was familiar and dear! Better the dry crust at home than someone elses pies! That, it seemed, was the truth of life! Passion, after all, comes from the word suffer. I found myself wishing to hurry up and suffer through, recover from Edward, and finally return home, rather than mindlessly indulge.

That was my reasoning, though my body still raced toward the sweet abyss. I remained spellbound.

My son Oliver knew about Edward. He saw us in a restaurant once, when hed come with his girlfriend. I had to introduce Edward to him; they shook hands and exchanged polite greetings. That evening, over dinner, I caught Oliver giving me quizzical looks. He wanted explanations. I jokedjust a colleague, discussing a new project. Of course… in a restaurant, he nodded knowingly. He never judged, just asked that I not divorce his dad. Even though things were headed that way. Dont rush, maybe Dad will get himself together, he said.

I felt like a lost lamb, astray. My divorced friend insisted I dump all these scruffy lovers and settle down. I took her advice seriously; she had ample experience, having gone through three husbands herself. Logically, she was right. But I only managed to break away after Edward tried to raise his hand to me.

That was the last straw. My friend had warned me:

The seas calmjust dont stray far from shore…

It was like a veil lifted. The world was in colour again! Three years of tormentfreedom at last! Sweet peace descended.

Edward persisted for ages, waiting for me wherever he could, begging forgivenesssometimes on his knees, in public. But I remained firm. My friend congratulated me with a cup that read: You did the right thing!

As for Thomas, he knew all about my escapade. Edward had called and told him. My lover had been sure Id leave my family. Thomas confessed to me:

When I listened to your admirers tirades, I just wished I could die quietly. You know, Im the one to blame for everything! I lost you. Threw you away for booze. Idiot. What could I say to you?

Ten years have passed since then. Thomas and I have two granddaughters. We sit together at the lunch table, drinking coffee. I gaze out the window. Thomas gently takes my hand:

Sophie, dont look elsewhere. Im your happiness! Do you believe me?

Of course I do, my one and onlyI squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth and fragility of all the years wed built together. The sunlight laid golden patterns across our table, and somewhere outside, a childs laugh rang out. There had been detours, heartbreak, mistakesoh, so many mistakesbut something tender had survived. Maybe happiness wasnt the fever of first love, or the dizzy madness of fleeting affairs, but the soft turning toward each other after every storm.

I took a breath, the years catching in my throat, and looked into Thomass gentle, tired eyes. I remembered the young man who wouldnt give up, the father with sweets in his pockets, the broken soul who needed saving more than anyone. And I saw the simple truth: after everything, Id never stopped wanting to come home.

Yes, Thomas, I whispered, smiling through tears. I believe you. I do.

He covered my hand with both of his, and for a long moment we sat in silence, letting the sunlight bathe us, letting the world outside spin on its own. There would be hard days again, troubles we couldnt foresee. But as my granddaughters giggled in the other room and the kettle hummed, I realized happiness was not something you chase or steal, but something you return to, again and again.

And so I stayed.