Gaze into Bliss and Embrace Happiness

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 8 minViews 3

The camera lingers on a mistshrouded cottage in a Yorkshire hamlet, the low winter sun turning the thatch a dull gold. For nineteen years Emily Whitaker has lived there with her mother, Martha, and her grandmother, Ethel. She clings to the hope that one day James Hartley, the boy she has loved since they were children, will return.

She smiles at the memory of James, five years older, the boy who used to race the wind down the lane. Imagine if James just turned up out of the blue, she whispers to herself, but his grandmother died three years ago, and I was the one who cared for her

After finishing Year9, Emily earned a place at the Leeds Medical College. Fresh out of training she now works as a paramedic at the village health centre. Between checking blood pressures and giving injections she often asks herself, What is a womans happiness, really? Does it even exist? She watches her mother and grandmotherboth widows, both raising families aloneand wonders if they ever felt it. Her mother once told her that her own father vanished the moment she learned she was pregnant. Her grandmother Ethel, a kind soul, raised two daughters after being widowed early.

Emily tends the villagers with gentle hands, despite her youth. She bandages cuts, treats fevers, and even mends the scrapes on the neighbourhood cats and dogs. She has been a healer since childhood, slathering green ointment on her friends knees and stitching her own small wounds.

One crisp afternoon she walks back from the health centre, lost in thought, and James drifts into her mind again.

Why do I keep thinking about him? she chastises herself. He might already be married, have a brood of children, and never know Ive loved him since I was thirteen. The last time he had been in the village was for his grandmothers funeral; they barely spoke, each leaning on the others arm for support.

Winter has settled deep, the New Year already passed, February drawing to a close. Martha delivers the post on a rattling bicycle, while Ethel stays at home, baking hot scones and rolling up dumplings.

Emily turns toward her own cottage, glances once more at the neighboring housea key to which Ethel had given her years ago when she cared for the old lady. After heavy snowfalls, Emily would sometimes clear a path to that house, hoping James might appear.

Hey, Gran, wheres Mum? She should be home by now, asks the young girl perched on the stoop.

She dropped in earlier, then went to visit Mary, a friend whos under the weather. Shell be back soon with the medicine. Come inside, love, Ill get you something warm. Maybe the old folk will finally come out of their shells, Ethel croons softly.

Emily chuckles, Im starving, and its bonechilling out. Spring will push this stubborn winter away, pack its bags and fly off to somewhere warmer. I love spring.

She retreats to her little bedroom, collapses onto the bed, and James returns to her thoughts. She recalls a summer when he was seventeen, helping his grandfather Sam patch a roof. He slipped, almost fell, but Sam caught his wrist just in time, though a nail wounded his foot. From her garden she saw the mishap, grabbed a bandage and some green salve, and rushed over. James sat on the roofs edge, wincing, while his grandmother clapped his shoulders and groaned.

Does it hurt, James? Let me clean that up, the girl demanded, eyes fierce.

Its youre a doctor now, he muttered, surprised.

Dont be modest, his grandmother replied, Shes been tending to everyones wounds since she was a child.

Emily examined the cut, her blue eyes full of sympathy, and said, Its shallow, Ill have it dressed in a flash. She asked repeatedly, Is it painful? Her voice trembled, and James, seeing her earnest gaze, managed a smile. No, not at all, he said, his breath steadying. From that day, the image of her clear, blue eyes stayed with him, even as he turned twelve.

When James returned from the army and saw his mother, her pale, cracked lips made him choke back tears. She wept with relief, whispering, Thank God youre back, my son. I can finally rest. He vowed, Mum, Ill never let you hear those words again. Ill help you, always.

He proved a dutiful son, giving injections, massaging aching limbs, and caring for his mothers weak heart. He secured a job, determined to give her a stable footing, and succeeded. Soon his mothers spirits lifted; she tended the house, often dreaming of their old village home.

Ah, son, how wonderful it would be to live out in the country again. No more climbing four flights of stairsjust a chair on the porch, fresh air, maybe even a few chickens, she mused.

James promised to visit the village one weekend, despite the foolishness of traveling there in winter. His mothers eyes sparkled at the promise. He set a date for Saturday, knowing it might be a pipe dream, but hed go anyway.

The bus rumbled into the hamlet, and James was taken aback by the tractorcleared lane leading straight to the old cottage that had once been his grandmothers. The path was narrow, the snow cleared right up to the gate and the threestep porch, where an ancient broom leaned against the wall.

Whos been clearing this? Perhaps someones moved back in, he thought, surprised.

The windows, draped with light curtains sewn by Ethel herself, were still shut. He lifted the key from his pocket, turned the lock, and heard a bright, familiar voice behind him.

Hello! Its been ages since you were here, and Ive been waiting, feeling that youd come one day.

James whirled, almost stumbling off the porch. Standing before him was a striking young woman in a sheepskin coat and a fluffy white hat, her blue eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed with colour.

Dont you recognize me? Im Ethels granddaughter youll remember, she said.

Emily Whitaker stepped forward, her hair in twin braids, cheeks pink, a nervous grin on her lips.

Emily youve got to be kidding. Of course I remember you, James stammered, a grin breaking through. You patched my foot you were half my size, those light braids sticking out to the sides.

So you do remember, she replied, her smile widening.

Emilys voice trembled with excitement. Ive been shoveling snow, waiting for you. Come in, have a cup of teamy mother and grandmother will be thrilled. Then we can go inside; youll have time to settle.

James settled at a small table, sipping tea with cherry jam, while the womens mother and grandmother slipped into another room, their laughter drifting through the walls.

My grandmother fell ill lately, and I didnt want to worry you both, Emily confessed. Ive been caring for her, feeding her. Ive wanted to be a medic since I was a child, and now Im a paramedic here.

James chuckled, I still remember you bandaging my foot, looking so serious. You healed it so well theres not even a scar left.

Emily waved her hand, blushing, Oh, stop it. I was just so worried about you Ive loved you ever since. She covered her mouth, surprised by her own confession.

James, taken aback, replied, You were just a lanky girl back then, but I respected you when I saw how seriously you treated me. He tried to hide his own surprise at her boldness.

Emily handed him the key to his grandmothers cottage.

This is the key she gave me before she passed. She always said youd come back, maybe even stay, she said, eyes dropping shyly.

James took the key, Keep it. Lets go inside.

Inside, the house shone with cleanliness, as if Ethel had just stepped out for a moment. James felt a deep gratitude toward Emily for the order shed brought back.

I have to go home now, but I promise Ill return. Ill bring my mother; she needs this fresh air. Ill straighten the place up, and you wait for me. Ill be backyour shining eyes wont let me go, he said, his heart thudding with joy.

Emily watched the bus pull away, a smile trembling on her lips. She finally understood what a womans happiness felt like.

James turned to the departing driver, shouting, My grandmother was rightI’ll be back, and I wont ever let you slip away! The scene fades as the countryside drifts into a hopeful, snowkissed sunrise.

My Story Is Different: My Mother-in-Law Knew Her Son Was Cheating on Me With the Neighbour, and She Hid It From Me—The Truth Came Out When She Got Pregnant and The Family Could No Longer Cover It Up. After Six Years of Marriage, Everything Fell Apart. We Lived Together, Worked Together, Had No Children Yet—We Weren’t Perfect, But I Believed We Were a Family. Almost Every Sunday, We’d Have Lunch With His Parents; I Helped in the Kitchen and Felt Part of Their Home. I Never Imagined That People Could Sit Around The Table, Look Me In The Eye, and Hide Something Like This. The Neighbour Was Always Around—She Wasn’t Just ‘the Woman Next Door,’ She Was Practically Family. She’d Stop By Often, Sometimes Unannounced, Sometimes Staying For Dinner, Sometimes Late Into The Evening—And I Never Suspected Anything, Because I Believed Family Had Boundaries. My Mother-in-Law Always Defended Her—If Anyone Criticized Her, She’d Justify It. If She Needed Help, My Mother-in-Law Was First To Offer. As For My Husband—He Was Always ‘Available.’ I Saw It All, But Convinced Myself Not To Think Badly. A Few Months Before Everything Exploded, I Started To Feel Something Was Off—My Husband Was More Distant, Always ‘Busy’ With Family or Work. I Never Checked Up On Him, But My Mother-in-Law Started Acting Cold, Distant, Less Kind—Almost Guilty. The Day The Truth Came Out, I Wasn’t Ready—His Aunt Called and, After Small Talk, Asked: “Are You Still Living Together?” Then Quietly: “Do You Not Know Anything…about the Neighbour?” That’s When I Felt A Chill— She Told Me Directly: The Neighbour Was Pregnant, And The Father Was My Husband. It Had Become An ‘Open Secret’ In The Family, Who’d Been Trying For Months To ‘Manage The Situation,’ But No One Dared Tell Me. I Sat On The Edge Of The Bed Waiting; When My Husband Came Home, I Asked Him Directly. He Didn’t Deny It—He Just Hung His Head: “It Wasn’t Planned…” “How Long?” “More Than A Year.” I Asked Who Knew— The Worst Blow: “Mum’s Known For Months.” The Next Day, I Confronted My Mother-in-Law: “Why Didn’t You Tell Me?” She Was Calm, No Tears, No Trembling—Just Justified Herself: “I Wanted To Avoid A Scene. Thought He’d Fix It With You.” Her ‘Protecting’ Me Was Actually Protecting Herself and Her Son. I Realised: I’d Never Been Protected—Just Convenient. Everyone Had Deceived Me. The Family Tried To ‘Manage’ It, Tell Me Not To Overreact, Not To Be ‘Radical’—As If My Reaction Was The Problem. I Signed The Divorce Papers. The Neighbour Stayed With Her Mother For A While; My Mother-in-Law Stopped Speaking To Me. My Ex Became A Father With Her. I Was Alone—Not Just Without A Husband, But Without The Family I Thought I Had. The Worst Was Not Just The Affair, But The Collective Betrayal. I Signed The Divorce With The Weight Of Not Only My Husband’s Betrayal, But His Entire Family’s. For Six Years, I’d Joined Them Every Sunday, Cooked, Laughed, Celebrated, Thinking They Loved Me. But They Looked Me In The Eye, Knowing, Staying Silent, Protecting Him—not Me. My Mother-in-Law Didn’t Just Betray Me When She Found Out—She Betrayed Me Every Time She Hugged Me And Said “Everything’s All Right,” While Her Son Was Having A Child With Another. What Hurts More Than Infidelity: You Can Survive A Partner’s Betrayal. But The Betrayal Of An Entire ‘Family Table’—That Changes You Forever. ❓ Question for You: What Do You Think—If Your Partner’s Family Knows You’re Being Lied To And Cheated On, But Stays Silent, Are They Complicit Or Is It ‘None Of Their Business’? What Would You Do In My Place?

My Husband Invited His Ex to Celebrate New Year’s Eve with Us — That Was His Mistake Everything began two weeks before New Year’s Eve. He came home with a guilty yet determined look, the kind that doesn’t ask, but simply states: “She called… She said our son wants to spend New Year with his father. They’ll be coming over. Just for one night. We’ll sit at the table, that’s all. I bought him a present… You don’t mind, do you?” I did mind. I always did. But what did my feelings matter? Every time I tried to gently suggest: “Couldn’t you meet them in a café?” “Or stop by at theirs to say hello?” “Or just take your son out for a walk during the day?” …I hit the same brick wall. The wall of manipulation, guilt, and “you don’t understand me.” “What do you want… for my son to hate me? To think I have a new family where there’s no room for him? He’s at a difficult age. He needs to feel I haven’t abandoned him!” He said it as if I was asking him to abandon his child in the woods. And again… I gave in. Because I loved him. Because I believed that someday, he’d stop. And so… December 31st arrived. From the morning, I was up on my feet — running a marathon. I scrubbed our home until it sparkled, knowing she’d spot the smallest speck of dust on the highest shelf. Then, I cooked. I wanted everything to be perfect: A salad with my grandmother’s recipe — the one everyone always praises. Another salad — for which I traipsed through three shops to find the right ingredients. And homemade meat jelly — my husband’s favourite. Not to impress anyone. But because I didn’t want to hear: “Oh, can’t you even do that…” She always found something to criticise. They arrived around nine. She — icy, elegant, expensive, cold. Her gaze made you feel lacking without saying a word. Their teenage son — a carbon copy of her in every expression. He greeted his father respectfully, barely nodded at me, and crashed onto the sofa with his phone and headphones. She immediately began her “inspection”: “Oh… is this rug still here? I told you, it’s not practical.” “It’s practical — and warm…” I tried calmly. “Warm, yes. But style is another thing entirely, isn’t it?” She said it as if my taste was a crime. Then came the food: Here — “too much mayo.” There — “something’s not fresh.” Then the line that always pierced me: “My son doesn’t eat that. Young people have different tastes.” And then their son, not lifting his eyes from his phone: “Yeah, it’s disgusting. Buy some crisps instead.” My husband… in these moments, vanished. A shadow, pouring her wine. Smiling awkwardly. Trying to joke with his son and getting monosyllabic responses. And the worst part? He pretended not to hear how they humiliated me. His tactic was clear: No drama. Let the evening pass. Keep up appearances. So I sat there — smiling, silent, the perfect hostess… Externally. But inside, something screamed. I wasn’t his wife. Not his beloved. Not his partner. Just the help, serving a family spectacle that wasn’t mine. Then came the moment that killed me every year. Five minutes before midnight, the TV went on. Everyone sat “ceremoniously,” like actors in a play. She nudged my glass aside and put hers close to his. The bells rang. Everyone stood. My husband looked at the screen obediently. And in the moment when he, as the head of our home, should propose a toast… …she raised her glass. Her eyes were “accidentally” moist. She looked straight at him — deeply, personally — and said: “I want to raise a glass… to us. Because, no matter what, we are still a family. For our son.” That was when I saw it all. How he blushed. How he looked down, then back up at her. How he smiled — guilty, but soft. Not a guest’s smile. A smile for a woman whose past with you still breathes. And the truth hit me like a slap: I am not his wife in this scene. I am background. After midnight — at 00:10 — they were chatting lively. She sat by his side as if it was naturally hers. She touched his shoulder in a “friendly” way. Shared how their son was doing, whom he was meeting, what was happening “in their circles.” He nodded, still refusing to meet my eyes. Their son reached across the table for more salad — as if I didn’t exist. At exactly 00:15, I got up. I’m not sure how, but I stood in a way that made everyone fall silent. I went to the hall, put on my coat, boots, took my bag. Then he realised: “What are you doing?! Where are you going?!” I looked at him calmly. No tears, no hysteria. Just truth. “Your family is complete tonight. My place isn’t at this table. I’m going to celebrate my New Year… with a friend.” She looked surprised — then her eyes flashed with a hint of satisfaction. Their son snorted. My husband turned pale. “What are you talking about?! Come back! It’s the holidays!” I nodded lightly. “For you, yes. For me, my holiday starts now. And it will be without ‘guests’ who make me invisible. Just please, clean up after yourselves tomorrow — the dishes, the floor, the decorations. You’re a family. And there’s no free maid in this house anymore.” I turned. “Happy New Year.” And walked out, without looking back. Outside, it was cold. The frost hit my face, waking me up for good. Fireworks sliced the sky. I took out my phone and messaged my friend: “I’m on my way. See you in 20 minutes.” I parked in a neighbouring area. Walked through the snow and felt the years of humiliation… melting away. I hadn’t run. I had left — of my own free will. Left them — under the fairy lights and empty toasts — to play at their “happy family” act. My New Year began here — on a quiet, cold street, with freedom. For the first time, I wasn’t a guest at someone else’s celebration. I was the author of my own life. There were hard conversations afterwards. Many truths. Many silences. And a month later… we split up. He went back to his past. As if that night was the scene he’d always wanted to play out. But life punishes weakness its own way. That “second chance” he thought he’d build on guilt and habit… didn’t last long. It fell apart. And me? I survived the hardest winter of my life. And afterwards, I gave myself something no one could take away. I took a holiday, flew with a friend to a place where it’s summer and the sea doesn’t ask questions. There, I laughed. There, I found myself again. There, I met someone who never made me feel “unnecessary.” Since then, celebration isn’t a date. Celebration is the feeling of being loved first — not after someone’s past. ❓What do you think? When a man puts his ex before his current partner — is it love, or just fear of being alone?