Bittersweet Happiness – Why Don’t You Like This Lady? She’s a Good Girl: Modest, Tidy, Smart, Loves You. Elena’s Disapproving Look at Her Nearly Forty-Year-Old Son Who Still Hasn’t Settled Down, Despite a String of Relationships That All Felt Not Quite Right—Until a Chance Meeting on a Train Leads Denis to Larisa, a Woman with Three Kids Living in a Hostel, Seven Years His Senior, Whom He Marries Against All Odds, Only for Them to Welcome a Daughter with Down’s Syndrome—A Testing, Bittersweet, But Ultimately Cherished Happiness.

Author Emily TaylorReading 7 minViews 1

BITTERSWEET HAPPINESS

“What exactly do you find fault with in that young lady? Shes a fine girl. Modest, neat, she works hard at her studies. She loves you,” Helen Jameson looked reproachfully at her son.

“Mum, Ill handle it” Mark replied, aiming to put an end to the aimless discussion.

Helen stepped out of the room.
“Hell sort it out How many women has he cycled through by now Nearly forty, and soon enough, none will suit him at all. Always something not quite right for him, never content” she pondered, sighing heavily.

“Son, lunch is ready,” Helen called from the kitchen.

Mark responded at once and soon was tucking into a bowl of his mothers vegetable stew with delight.

“Thanks, Mum. As alwaysdelicious,” he said with a grateful smile.

“You should be saying that to your wife, not to me,” Helen fussed, unable to let go of the subject.

“Mum” Mark finished his drink and prepared to leave.

“Wait, love. I just rememberedyears ago I went to see a fortune teller, and she said, right as I stepped inside: ‘Your son will have bittersweet happiness.'”

“Oh, Mum, dont believe all that,” Mark grinned.

Throughout different periods in Marks life there had been women who meant somethingor very littleto him.

Clara was intelligent, well-read, wise beyond her years. She gave sound advice to Mark, despite being nine years younger. At first, Mark appreciated her guidance, but in time he began to see Clara only as a sensible older friend. And nothing more. It all felt rather bland, and they parted ways.

Sarah brought a son of eight years with her. Mark could never form even a basic connection with the boy, even though he quite liked Sarah. She was beautiful, but her temperament was difficult; nothing ever seemed to go smoothly. Arguments cropped up over nothing at all. Each time, while smoothing things overhis fault or hershed buy her gifts. The quarrels were oddly pointless. Something was missingperhaps peace, perhaps stability.

Rebecca was the very portrait of an ideal. Women of her quality were rare indeed.

Mark was on the verge of proposing to her. Rebecca struck him as upright, pure-minded, reasonable. With her, one had to mind his words, so to speak, keep his gloves white. Mark even moved into her flat, ready to start a familyat least two children, he wanted. But it was not to be

Once, he returned from a business trip only to find Rebecca in bed with her old classmate. Classic, really

Mark moved back with his mother, deciding hed had more than enough of the romantic world.

“Ill be a bachelor. Not the worst fate. The strongest family is made of one,” he told his mother wryly.

Helen simply shrugged and sighed: “Will you never find your fate, son”

But fate did find him, quite unexpectedly.

Mark set off on yet another business trip. He took his seat on the lower bunk of a railway carriage. In stepped a woman.

“Excuse me, would you mind swapping berths with me? Could I have your lower bunk?” she asked politely.

“Not at all,” Mark replied.

He looked the woman over: nothing unusual. Yet, his heart gave a strange flutter. Was this, perhaps, fate?

Mark climbed to his upper berth and dozed off

“Its lovely that youre awake. Please, do join me at the tablehave some of this,” the stranger cooed.

Mark clambered down. They struck up a conversation.

“Laura,” she introduced herself.

“Mark. Pleased to meet you, Laura.”

They talked the evening away. Mark felt at ease, comfortable as if hed known Laura all his life. He didnt even try to impress her as he often did; she seemed so familiar to him. They exchanged phone numbers, just in case

A couple of weeks passed before Mark couldnt help but long to hear Lauras voice.

And so began it all

Meetings, kisses, whispered promises

Mark found himself amazed at the thought of living without herat forty years old! All those women before hed shrugged off easily. But nowboundaries fell away; there were no lines left.

He longed to be part of Lauras entire life.

This woman wrapped Mark in gentle warmth, care, and understanding.

Three months after their first meeting, Mark offered Laura his heart and asked for her hand.

“Mark, Im seven years your senior. I have three children, and we still live in a bedsit,” Laura never was one to dissemble. She was honest from the start.

“And youre widowed. Laura, I know. Ive met your children. You’ll all live with me. Thats settled. I love you, every bit of you. Youre my chance encounter and my last woman,” Mark said, kissing her softly.

“All right, Mark. Lets give it a go,” Laura agreed, blushing.

“No, not just try. We’ll be together, always,” Mark took Lauras hand firmly. “Forever. Do you understand? Forever.”

Helen, on hearing her sons plans, could only mutter, “So this is the choice youve made Plain among the plain”

Nine months later, the couple welcomed a new life into the worlda special little girl.

Mark watched over Laura with joy and worry alike. Would Laura manage? A special child brings endless challenges.

Now, Mark and Lauras daughter is eight. The whole family adores her.

Mark cherishes Laura.

Bittersweet, yet happiness all the sameSometimes, in the quiet moments after dinner, Mark would sit beside Laura as their daughter drew lopsided hearts with colored pencils. The elder childrennow grown, lives of their ownvisited often, filling the little house with laughter. Helen, silver-haired and softened by years, came too. She watched the girl with silent devotion and sometimes, when no one noticed, pressed a gentle kiss to her granddaughters forehead.

One evening, as the sky melted into gold, Mark found Laura on the porch, cradling a cup of tea, their daughter curled at her feet listening to a story. Mark lingered in the doorway, just looking at themthe woman with laughter lines hed never tire of tracing, the small miracle at her feet, the quiet promise held in the dusk.

Laura saw him watching and smiled, her eyes shining with gratitude for this simple, hard-earned happiness. And Mark, remembering all the searching and uncertainty of his youth, felt only peace.

Bittersweet happiness, his mothers fortune-teller had called it. He understood at last. The sweetness was sharp with the knowledge of all hed lost before, all the longing and the almosts. But it was realanchored, steady, alive with hope.

Mark stepped outside to join his family, letting the door swing open behind him. The house brimmed with ordinary joy: voices rising, the faint scent of stew in the air, childrens drawings on the walls, and Lauras hand finding his in the deepening twilight.

He belonged, at lastnot to perfection, but to love. And it was more than enough.

Leonard Refused to Believe Ira Was His Daughter, Distrustful Due to Rumours About Vera’s Flirtations at the Shop—He Never Loved His Fragile Child, But Grandpa Matthew Cherished Her, Left Her His Countryside House, and Predicted She’d Find Happiness There Ira Was Loved Only by Her Grandfather During her childhood, delicate little Ira was often ill. Leonard would insist, “No one in our families is this tiny! How could she be mine?” His indifference passed on to her mother, Vera. Grandpa Matthew, a retired forester living at the village’s edge near the woods, was the only one who cared for Ira. Locals found him odd; his predictions often came true, and they sought his herbal remedies. With his wife gone, the forest and Ira were his comfort. She mostly lived with him, learning about healing plants and dreaming of becoming a nurse, even as her mother claimed there was no money for school. Grandpa reassured her, promising help even if it meant selling the cow. Grandpa’s Will Promises Home and Fortune Vera rarely visited her father, but appeared when her son lost money gambling. Grandpa refused to pay the debt: “I’m not covering for Andrew’s mistakes—I need to support my granddaughter.” Furious, Vera shouted she’d disown her family and stormed off. Only Grandpa helped Ira attend nursing college, and her scholarship supported her studies. Before she graduated, Grandpa fell ill. He reminded Ira he’d left her the house, advising her to find work in town but keep the home alive—“Stay in the house and happiness will come to you,” he predicted. Grandpa Matthew’s Prophecy Came True After Matthew died in autumn, Ira commuted from the city hospital to maintain her grandfather’s home. One snowy weekend, a young man named Stan knocked, his car stuck outside. After helping dig him out, Ira invited him for tea, and Stan was charmed by her courage. Their acquaintance grew, and Stan offered Ira a lift to the district center. Soon, Stan surprised Ira with a visit, joking that her herbal tea must be magical because he couldn’t stop thinking about her. There was no wedding—Ira declined—yet sincere love blossomed. Stan was devoted, carrying her in his arms as she read about in novels. When their first son was born, nurses marvelled that such a tiny woman had a strapping baby boy. Ira named him Matthew, in honour of her beloved grandfather.

My Dear Wife – “How have you managed to live with the same woman for so many years? What’s your secret?” My brother never missed the chance to ask these questions whenever he visited. “Love, and endless patience—that’s the whole secret,” I always replied. “That recipe isn’t for me. I love all women. Each one is a mystery. Living with a book you’ve already read? No, thanks,” my brother would smirk. My younger brother Peter married at eighteen. His bride, Asya, was ten years his senior—a sweet woman hopelessly in love with Peter for life, while Peter saw her only as a passing amusement. Asya moved into Peter’s family home, where seven relatives lived, and gave birth to a son, Mitya. She believed her happiness was finally complete. The young couple was given a tiny room, where Asya displayed her cherished collection of rare porcelain figurines—ten delicate treasures that everyone in the family knew meant the world to her. At the time, I myself was searching for the one woman to spend a lifetime with—a dream that ultimately came true. My wife and I have now been married over fifty years. Peter and Asya lasted ten years. Asya could boast of little—the devoted, compliant wife who loved her husband and son wholeheartedly. What more did Peter want? One night, Peter came home drunk, picking on Asya and making crude jokes. Sensing trouble, Asya quietly left with Mitya. Suddenly, there was a terrible crash—the sound of her precious collection shattering. She ran back to find all her treasured figurines in pieces, except for one that miraculously survived. Asya kissed it, eyes brimming with tears, and said nothing. From that day, a rift opened between them. Asya fulfilled her duties, but a spark was gone. Peter drank more, brought home questionable friends and women. Asya withdrew, becoming distant and unreachable. Peter neglected the family, and eventually, they parted ways—without shouting or accusations. Asya took Mitya and moved back to her hometown, leaving the lone surviving figurine behind as a memory. Peter wasn’t lonely for long; he threw himself into a reckless, untethered life of repeated marriages, heartbreaks, and drink. Though a brilliant economist—in-demand at universities, author of a textbook, with a sparkling future—he let it all slip away. At last, thinking he had settled down, our relieved family attended his simple wedding to a stunning woman with a seventeen-year-old son—a stepchild Peter underestimated, and who ultimately drove them to divorce five years later after much strife. Peter bounced from one romance to the next—Lily, Natalie, Sue—believing each was the one. But life had other plans. At fifty-three, Peter fell gravely ill. No women remained but his family. On his deathbed, he asked me, “Simon, there’s a suitcase under my bed—bring it here.” I opened it, stunned to find it packed with delicate porcelain figurines, each carefully wrapped. “I collected these for Asya—never forgot the silent reproach in her eyes when her collection was smashed. My poor wife endured plenty. There’s a hidden compartment with money—give it all to my dear wife. Ask her to forgive me. Promise you’ll do this, Simon.” I choked back tears and solemnly agreed. He pointed to an envelope under his pillow with Asya’s address. Though they hadn’t spoken in years, Asya had kept in touch, writing letters—never replied to, but always sent. After Peter’s funeral, I set off to find Asya. We met at a lonely train platform. She hugged me, “Oh Simon—you and Peter could be twins.” I handed her the suitcase, passed on Peter’s request for forgiveness and his last gifts. It was our final parting. Later, I received one last letter: “Simon, thank you and Peter for everything. I’m grateful to God that Peter was part of my life. Mitya and I sold the figurines to a real enthusiast and used the money to move to Canada—my sister had long invited us, and nothing kept me here. All that remained was hope Peter would call me back—he never did. But I am happy he always saw me as his true wife. Now Mitya is better, and I am content. Farewell.” She left no return address…

“Mum, I’m Getting Married!” Cheered the Son “That’s nice,” replied Sonia with little enthusiasm. “Mum, what’s wrong?” asked Victor, surprised. “It’s nothing… Where do you plan to live?” she squinted. “Here. You don’t mind, do you?” Victor replied. “It’s a three-bedroom flat, surely we’ll all fit?” “Do I have a choice?” Sonia asked. “We can’t exactly afford to rent,” her son said gloomily. “So I really don’t have a choice,” Sonia said resignedly. “Mum, rents are so high now we’d barely have money for food,” Victor insisted. “It won’t be forever. We’ll save up for our own place much quicker this way.” Sonia shrugged. “I hope so… All right, you can move in and stay as long as you need, but on two conditions: We split the bills three ways and I am not going to be anyone’s housekeeper.” “Fair enough, Mum, whatever you say,” Victor agreed immediately. The young couple had a simple wedding and all moved in together: Sonia, Victor and his new wife, Irene. From the moment they arrived, Sonia seemed to have a new lease of life. Every evening, when the newlyweds got home, the house was a mess and there was nothing cooking. Sonia was always out: one day at choir rehearsals at the Community Centre (“They say I’ve got a great voice, you know!”), the next day at a poetry reading (“You remember how much I love Shakespeare!”), or at coffee and bingo with her new friends—all pensioners enjoying themselves until late, taking over the kitchen with laughter, tea, and biscuits brought from the corner shop. She purposefully refused to do any household chores, leaving everything for Victor and Irene. At first, they didn’t complain. Then Irene started giving sideways looks. Next they grumbled, and finally Victor resorted to loud sighs. Sonia ignored it all, embracing her active lifestyle. One day, she came home singing “Greensleeves,” and announced cheerfully, “Good news, children! I’ve met a wonderful gentleman and we’re off to a spa together tomorrow. Isn’t that lovely?” “It is,” Victor and Irene agreed in unison. “And is it serious, Mum?” asked Victor, secretly worried about one more moving in. “We’ll see after the spa,” Sonia said, helping herself to soup and seconds. When she came back, she was disappointed: “Alex wasn’t my type, so I’ve moved on. But life is still ahead of me!” She kept up her busy social calendar, her circle of friends growing. Eventually, one day Irene snapped, slamming the empty fridge: “Sonia, couldn’t you help with the housework? The flat’s a tip and there’s no food! Why should we do everything?” “And what’s got you so wound up?” Sonia replied with genuine surprise. “If you lived on your own, who’d do those chores?” “But you live here!” Irene argued. “And I’m not going to be some sort of Mrs. Mop for you. I’ve served my time! I warned Victor straight away: I won’t be the maid. If he didn’t tell you, that’s not my fault,” Sonia said. “I thought you were joking…” Victor mumbled. “So you want a free ride AND for me to tidy your mess and cook? Absolutely not! I said I wouldn’t, and I won’t! If you’d rather, you can always live on your own,” Sonia declared, and went to her room. The next morning, she cheerfully sang, did her lipstick and put on her best blouse, and set off to the arts centre—her choir was waiting.