ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS? Honestly, I never planned on getting married. If it hadn’t been for my future husband’s persistent courtship, I’d still be living like a free spirit. Arthur was like a lovesick butterfly, fluttering around me, never letting me out of his sight, eager to please, treating me like I was made of glass… In short, I caved. We got married. Arthur instantly became a homebody—a familiar, warm soul. Life with him was easy, comfortable, like slipping into your favourite slippers. A year later, our son, Steven, was born. Arthur worked in another city, only coming home once a week, always bringing us delicious treats. One time when he was home, as usual, I got ready to wash his clothes and checked all the pockets, just in case. (Once I’d already washed his driving licence!) After that, I always double-checked before laundry. This time, a piece of paper fell out of his trousers—folded four times. I opened it. It was a long list of school supplies (it was August), with a child’s handwriting at the end: “Dad, please come home soon.” So, that’s how my husband spends his time away! A two-timer! I didn’t kick off a tantrum, didn’t pack my bag, grab Steven (not even three years old) by the hand, and head off to my mum’s house—indefinitely. Mum gave us a room: “Stay here until you sort things out.” I started thinking about revenge on my thankless husband. I remembered an old schoolmate, Rob. Now Rob, he was always chasing me—back in school, and even after. So I called him. “Hi, Rob! You married yet?” I asked playfully. “Nadine? Hey! What does it matter—married, divorced… Maybe we should meet up?” Rob perked up. And so began my impromptu fling. It lasted six months. Arthur paid child support, handing it over to my mum each month before leaving silently. I learned Arthur was living with Katie Evans—she had a daughter from her first marriage. Katie insisted her daughter call Arthur “Dad.” They all lived in Arthur’s flat. As soon as Katie heard I’d left, she and her daughter moved straight in from out of town. Katie worshipped Arthur—knitted him woolly socks and warm jumpers, cooked hearty meals… I only learned all this later. I’ll always bring up Katie Evans when my husband’s around. Back then, though, I thought our marriage was over, a complete disaster… …But, meeting over coffee to discuss divorce, Arthur and I were suddenly swamped with fond memories. Arthur confessed his undying love, repented, admitted he didn’t know how to get rid of clingy Katie. I couldn’t help but pity him. We reunited. And Arthur never found out about Rob. Katie and her daughter left town for good. …Seven happy years passed. Then Arthur was in a terrible car accident. Operations, rehab, walking with a stick—it took two years. The ordeal wore him down. Arthur began drinking heavily, losing all sense of himself, shutting out the world. It was agony, watching him destroy himself and wear us down. Pleas didn’t help. He refused all support. At work, I found a shoulder to cry on—Paul. He’d listen to me during smoke breaks, stroll after work, comfort and encourage. Paul was married; his wife was expecting their second child. To this day, I’m not sure how Paul and I ended up in bed together—madness! He was a head shorter than me, nothing like my type! Suddenly, Paul swept me off to galleries, concerts, ballets. When his wife had their daughter, the fun stopped. Paul quit our company and took another job. Maybe he thought: out of sight, out of mind? I didn’t hold it against him and let him go back to his family. For me, he was just a bandage for my soul. I never wanted to break up his marriage. Meanwhile, Arthur kept drinking. …Five years later, I bumped into Paul. He earnestly proposed to me. I had to laugh. My Arthur did manage to pull himself together—for a bit. He went to work in Prague. I played the devoted wife and caring mum, focused on family. Arthur came back after half a year. We renovated the flat, bought gadgets, fixed up his car. Life should have been great. But no—instead, Arthur relapsed and drank even more. Hell started all over again. His mates carried him home—he couldn’t walk, only crawl. I’d rush around our neighbourhood looking for my out-of-it husband, dragging him home from park benches, empty-pocketed… Anything could happen. …Then, one spring afternoon, I was standing sadly at a bus stop. Birds chirping, the sun glowing—April in full bloom, but I didn’t care. Someone whispered softly in my ear: “Maybe I can help with your troubles?” I turned around. My, what a handsome, well-groomed man! And here I am, 45! Am I going to be ‘ripe fruit’ again? I blushed like a schoolgirl. Thankfully, my bus arrived—I jumped on quickly, away from temptation. The man waved me off. All day, I daydreamed about him at work. Sure, I played hard to get for a couple of weeks… But Igor (that was his name) was relentless, like a tank. He’d wait for me every morning at the bus stop. I didn’t dare be late—would peek ahead to see if my heartthrob was waiting. Igor would flash me a smile and send flying kisses. One morning, he brought a bunch of red tulips. “What am I supposed to do with flowers at work?” I snorted. “The girls’ll figure me out and I’ll be in trouble for nothing.” Igor grinned, handed the bouquet to a little old lady watching our drama. The lady absolutely beamed! “Thank you, love! Wishing you a passionate lover!” I blushed at her words—at least she didn’t wish me a younger one! Igor turned to me: “Nadine, let’s be ‘in trouble’ together! Trust me, you won’t regret it.” Honestly, his offer was tempting and very timely. Arthur and I were on different planets then—most days, he was a lifeless plank, lost to drink. Igor didn’t smoke or drink, used to be an athlete (he was 57), and a brilliant talker—divorced, with a magnetic charm. I plunged headlong into a whirlwind affair! It was a pool of wild passion. For three years, I was torn between home and Igor, utterly muddled inside. I couldn’t stop—even when I wanted to. As they say, “a girl drives away the lad, but he doesn’t go.” Igor had total control over my body and soul! When he stood near, I couldn’t breathe. Pure madness! But deep down, I knew this couldn’t end well—I didn’t love Igor. After every steamy encounter, I wanted nothing more than to snuggle up to my husband—drunk, reeking, yet familiar and dear! Your own crust is tastier than someone else’s cake, I thought. Passion comes from ‘suffering’—I was ready to be done with Igor and come home, instead of foolishly chasing pleasure. That was my logic. My body, though, kept falling headfirst. My son knew about Igor. Once he spotted us at a restaurant, out with his girlfriend. I had to introduce them. They shook hands, exchanged glances. At dinner, Steven watched me, waiting for answers. I joked it off—“just a colleague, talking about a new project.” “In a restaurant, Mum?” he smirked. Steven didn’t judge—he just begged me not to divorce Dad: “Maybe Dad will come round.” I felt like a lost sheep. My divorced friend kept urging me, “Drop those useless lovers and calm down.” I listened; she had plenty of practice (on her third husband). But in the end, I only stopped with Igor when he tried to raise a hand against me. That was the final straw. My friend used to say: “It’s all calm till you step off the shore…” The fog lifted—I’d been stuck in darkness three years! Freedom at last! Igor kept chasing me, pleading at every chance—even on his knees, in public… But I stood firm. My friend kissed me in congratulations and gave me a mug with “You’re Right!” on it. As for Arthur, he knew all about my affair—Igor had called and told him everything. Igor was convinced I’d leave my marriage. Arthur later told me: “When I heard your admirer’s serenades, I just wanted to die quietly. It was all my fault—I lost my wife to the bottle. Idiot. What could I possibly say?” …Ten years have passed since. Arthur and I have two granddaughters. One day, sitting together over lunch, sipping coffee, I gazed out the window. Arthur took my hand gently: “Nadine, don’t go looking elsewhere. I am your happiness! Do you believe it?” “Of course, I do, my one and only…”

ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS?

To be honest, Id never planned on getting married. If it wasnt for the determined courtship of my future husband, Id probably still be as free as a bird. Charles fluttered around me like a lovesick butterfly, never letting me out of his sight, always striving to please, treating me like something precious. In the end, I surrendered. We got married.

Charles immediately became my safe haven familiar, comfortable, my own. Being with him felt like slipping into a pair of cosy slippers.

A year later, our son Samuel was born. Charles job had him working in another city, so hed come home once a week. Each time, he brought little treats for me and Samuel. On one of his visits, as usual, I prepared to do his laundry, rifling through his pocketsa habit Id picked up, ever since I once washed his driving license along with his trousers.

Since then, I always checked every pocket before throwing clothes in the wash. This time, a folded piece of paper slipped out of his trousers. Unfolding it, I found a long list of school supplies (it happened in August). At the bottom, in a childs handwriting, was written: Daddy, please come home soon.

So thats how my husband spends his time away! A double life!

But instead of drama, I packed a bag, took Samuels hand (he wasnt even three yet), and went to stay with my mum for a while. Mum gave us a room: Stay here until you sort things out.

Eventually, thoughts of retribution toward my ungrateful husband crept in. I remembered Paul, my old classmate. Hed always paid me attention, both in school and afterwards. So, I called him.

Hello, Paul! Are you married? I started nonchalantly.

Maggie? Hello! What does it matter, married or divorced? Shall we meet up? Paul was positively eager.

That flirtation lasted half a year. Charles quietly paid his child support, handing over the money to my mother each month, then leaving without a word.

I knew Charles was living with Katherine Evans. She had a daughter from her previous marriage, and Katherine insisted the girl call Charles Dad. As soon as Katherine heard Id left, she moved into Charles flat with her daughter from another town. Katherine adored Charlesknitted him woolly socks, warm jumpers, cooked hearty meals. I learned all of this later. Ill admit, I often reproached Charles with the name Katherine Evans. Back then, though, our marriage felt dead, broken.

Then, one day over coffee to discuss our impending divorce, memories flooded in unexpectedly. Charles confessed his undying love, repented, admitted he had no clue how to ask Katherine to leave. I felt an unbearable sympathy for him and, just like that, we reunited. Charles, never knowing about Paul. Katherine and her daughter left our town for good.

Seven peaceful years of family life soon followed. Then Charles was in a car accidentoperations, physiotherapy, walking with a stick, two years of recovery. The ordeal drained Charles entirely. He began drinking heavily, losing his sense of self, shutting himself off. It hurt to watch. Nothing I said made a difference. He wore himself thin, dragging me and Samuel with him, refusing all help.

At work, I found comfort in someone unexpectedAndrew. He lent a sympathetic ear during smoke breaks, walked me home after work, offered encouragement when I felt hopeless. Andrew was married too; his wife was expecting their second child. To this day, I cant fathom how we ended up in bed together. He was shorter than me, not remotely my type! Madness.

Andrew whisked me to exhibitions, concerts, ballets. But once his wife gave birth to a daughter, all the fun stopped. He left our company for another job. Maybe he decided I was out of sight, out of mind. I never laid claim to Andrew, so letting him go felt easy. He dulled my pain for a timenothing more. I had no intention of disrupting someone else’s marriage.

Meanwhile, Charles kept drinking himself into oblivion.

Five years later, I bumped into Andrew by chance; he seriously proposed marriage. I just laughed.

Charles rallied briefly. He went to work in Prague, sending money home, while I dedicated myself entirely to being a proper wife and loving mother.

Charles returned six months later. We renovated the flat, bought new gadgets, and Charles finally fixed up his foreign car. Life couldve been marvellous. But, as luck would have it, Charles relapsed. The chaos restarted: friends lugging him home, him unable even to walk, sometimes crawling through the door. Id often roam our neighbourhood searching for my absent husband, finding him asleep on park benches, his pockets emptied out. It was an ordeal.

One spring morning, I stood, glum, at the bus stop. Birds chirped, the sun beamed, but I felt untouched by Aprils joy. Suddenly, someone whispered slyly in my ear, Maybe I can help with your trouble?

I turned around. Good heavens! What a dashing, charming man. And there I was, forty-fivecould I be blossoming again? Flustered like a schoolgirl, I quickly hopped on the arriving bus and fled. Best to avoid temptation. Still, he waved at me as I left. That entire day, all I could think about was him. For decorum, I played hard to get a couple of weeks.

But Edward, as he introduced himself, broke through every barrier. Each morning, he awaited me at the same stop, sending air kisses with a grin. One morning, he brought a huge bouquet of red tulips. I laughed, Where am I supposed to take flowers this early to work? The girls will tease me to pieces.

Edward grinned, Didnt think about the dreadful consequences. He promptly handed the flowers to an old lady whod been watching our little drama. She beamed. Thank you, dear! Hope you find a passionate lady! I blushed. Thankfully, she hadnt wished him a young loverId have melted into the pavement!

Edward turned to me, Lets share the blame together, Maggie. You wont regret it. I admit, the offer seemed both inviting and timely. Relations with Charles had come to a haltoften I found him sprawled on the bed, dead to the world.

Edward was a teetotal ex-athlete, 57 years old, divorced, and a fascinating conversationalist. He had an irresistible charm. I tumbled headlong into a wild affair! For three years, I was torn between home and Edward, emotionally exhausted, my soul muddled.

I didnt have the strength or the will to stop. And when I finally wanted to break it off, I still couldnt muster the courage. As the saying goes, She drives him away, but away he doesnt go. Edward had total claim over mebody and soul! When he was near, my heart raced; it was madness. Yet I knew this passion would lead nowherethere was no love for Edward.

After a night of passion, Id return home and long to cling tightly to Charles. Even drunk and bedraggled, he was my own and familiar. Your own crust is sweeter than someone elses pie, as they say. That felt like the truth of life. Passion has pain at its core, and I felt ready to finish suffering, to heal from Edward, and come homestop chasing fleeting pleasures. My mind reasoned so, but my body still craved the rush.

Samuel knew about Edwardhed seen us in a restaurant with his girlfriend. I had to introduce Edward to my son. They shook hands, exchanged polite nods. Later at dinner, Samuel gave me questioning looks, expecting explanations. I joked it was a work colleague discussing a new project. In a restaurant, though? Samuel smirked knowingly. He didnt judge; he simply asked me not to divorce his dad, saying maybe Dad would come to his senses.

I felt like a lost sheep gone astray. My divorced friend urged, Drop those ridiculous lovers and settle down. I took her advice to heartshe was on her third husband and knew a thing or two. But honestly, it was just logic. I finally stopped when Edward tried raising his hand against me.

That was the line. My friend had once warned, The sea is calm so long as you stand on the shore The spell broke. My world regained its colour. Three years in tormentfinally! I was free. Peace at last.

Edward kept pursuing me for ages, waiting for me everywhere, pleading for forgiveness on bended knee in public. But I stood firm. My wise friend hugged me and gifted me a mug reading You did the right thing!

As for Charles, he knew everything. Edward had phoned him, telling him about our affair, sure I would leave. Charles admitted, Listening to that, I wanted to fade quietly away. It was all my fault! I let you sliptraded you for the bottle. What could I protest?

Now, ten years have passed. Charles and I have two granddaughters. One afternoon, we sat at the table, sipping coffee. I gazed out the window. Charles gently took my hand, saying, Maggie, stop looking elsewhere. I am your happiness. Do you believe it?

Of course I do, my one and only.

In my journey, I learned that happiness isnt about perfection or escapeits about cherishing what is truly yours, even when life throws up storms and temptations. In the end, your own house, your own heart, is where joy finds its quiet home.