**A Hard-Won Happiness**
On Friday, the head accountant walked into the office looking especially put together, carrying a bottle of expensive wine, a cake, and a pack of deli meats.
“Ladies, don’t rush off after work—we’ll sit down for a bit and celebrate my birthday,” she announced.
Everyone immediately flocked to hug and congratulate her. So did Emily. She’d joined the company completely green, taking the brunt of every mistake, but she genuinely saw Margaret as her mentor. Margaret hugged her and whispered:
“Just a little longer, then I’ll retire. You, Emily love, I’m planning to recommend for my role. I know you’ll manage—you’re disciplined, responsible…”
Before Emily could thank her for the trust, another colleague swooped in with congratulations.
They wrapped up early, cleared the big desk in the head accountant’s office, covered it with a paper tablecloth, and laid out whatever was in the fridge. The director and heads of other departments showed up with a bouquet of roses and a gift. The noise level shot up again, and Emily slipped out unnoticed.
“Where d’you think you’re going? We just sat down!” Her colleague and mate, Sophie, caught her in the hallway.
“Need to get home. Dad’s on his own.”
“Stay a bit—half an hour, tops. Nothing’ll happen to him in that time.”
“Don’t bother. He hates it when I’m late—starts worrying, his blood pressure spikes. At his age, that’s risky.”
“Rubbish, what age? How old is he?”
“Seventy-one,” Emily sighed.
“That’s nothing! Men that age still fall in love, remarry…”
“Soph, I *have* to go. Apologise for me.” She turned to leave, but Sophie grabbed her wrist.
“You’ve backed yourself into a corner. You’re young—no life of your own. Is that normal? Doesn’t your dad *want* you to have a family? Grandkids?”
“What grandkids? I’m *forty-two*.”
“And? You’ve written yourself off too soon. At this rate, you’ll outlive him—oh, God, sorry.” Sophie bit her tongue at Emily’s sharp look. “But who’ll tell you straight if not me? Is he *ill*?”
“No, just getting older. Scared of dying alone.”
“I don’t get it, Em. Your mum spent her whole life dancing round him. And where’s *she* now? Now *you’re*—”
“Enough. It’s *my* life.” Emily pulled free and hurried to her office for her coat. Sophie watched her go, pity weighing in her chest.
Outside, spring was in the air—most of the snow had melted, buds were just about to burst. On her way home, Emily stopped at the shop. The queue at the till snaked long. She checked her watch. Plenty of time—left work early, only ten minutes from home. She’d make it.
At home, she made noise hanging up her coat so Dad would hear. She dropped the shopping in the kitchen and peeked into the lounge. He was sprawled on the sofa, telly blaring.
“Dad, I’m back. What’re you watching?”
The tension in his stare said he was in a mood. When *wasn’t* he?
“How’re you feeling?” she asked patiently.
“No rush to get home, was there? Too busy partying. Meanwhile, *my* pressure’s up. I’ll drop dead alone, and you won’t even know.” He shot her a glare.
“*Partying*? I literally stopped *once* to grab food. Here.” She fetched the blood-pressure cuff.
“Give me your arm. Let’s check.”
He didn’t budge.
“Don’t be childish. *Arm*.”
Grudgingly, he extended it. She strapped on the cuff, pumped the bulb.
“What’re you on about? Your pressure’s *fine*.”
“You don’t know how to measure. *I* can feel it,” he grumbled.
She knew he wasn’t young—had worked construction all his life, needed care. But that didn’t mean he got to loaf around all day.
“Should I call the GP tomorrow?”
“What do *they* know? Just hand out pills. Useless.”
She put the cuff away and went to change. Later, cooking dinner, she ran through an endless silent argument with him.
*I need a break too. Staring at screens all day, eyes throbbing. Could be eating cake and drinking wine with the team right now. They’re offering me a promotion, and I *ran*. What if Margaret’s offended?*
*I’m a grown woman. Sick of being micromanaged, nitpicked. Could at least pop to the corner shop. Sophie’s right—I’ll crack soon. No energy left…*
She cut herself off. Not fair to think that way, even if he couldn’t hear. Who knew how *she’d* act at his age—might be worse. But to whom?
Her mum had done everything—cleaning, cooking, hauling groceries. Dad reckoned housework wasn’t a man’s job, especially with two women at home. Never mind that the second “woman” was a child.
Emily couldn’t recall her mum ever lounging. Always sewing, knitting, cooking… As she grew older, she helped.
“Go play, love. You’ll have enough work once you’re married,” Mum would say, soft with pity.
When Emily brought home her fiancé, James, Dad gave him the once-over, then declared he wouldn’t tolerate freeloaders. He’d earned everything himself—no handouts. James barely stayed. Rented a flat post-wedding. Emily visited her parents often, helping Mum, whose blood pressure was always high.
James grew jealous. They fought. When Mum died of a stroke, Emily started seeing Dad daily. James left. Later, he tried to return, but she’d moved in with Dad by then.
She’d rebelled—same result every time. Dad faked chest pains, demanded an ambulance. She’d burn with shame explaining to paramedics that he was fine.
If she stayed late, he’d greet her with insults. Men had shown interest, but she never dared bring one home. So it went—no family, no kids.
After dinner, washing up, she spotted fresh mud on Dad’s shoes. So he *did* go out when she was at work. She said nothing. Just retreated to her room and the blaring telly.
Once, Sophie snapped, “Watching you waste your life—I can’t. We’re going to Brighton in June. No excuses—I’ll drag you if I have to.”
“But *Dad*—”
“He’s fitter than you. Meal-prep, ask a neighbour to check on him. *Ten days*. You *need* this.”
Emily couldn’t argue. She’d only been south once, on honeymoon. As the trip neared, she wavered. Only told Dad the night before.
Predictably, he called her selfish, said she wanted him dead. This time, she cut him off.
“Even maids get holidays. You won’t die in ten days. There’s food. Mrs. Wilkins from upstairs will check in.”
He blinked, stunned by her defiance. She locked herself in until Sophie and her husband arrived. The train left at 2 A.M.
On the coast, her worries melted. By day three, she’d tanned, brightened.
“There’s my Em. Men can’t stop staring.”
“Who?” She turned—and there he was. Tall, trim. Familiar.
“*Rob*?” She beamed. “Here alone? Family?”
“Wife passed. My daughter insisted I get away. And you? Still with James?”
“You *remember* him?”
“Course. I fancied you rotten. He beat me to it.”
Back then, she’d had eyes only for James.
“We divorced. Live with Dad now.”
“You say that like it’s a life sentence.”
“His temper… Sophie basically kidnapped me. Fancy meeting *here*.”
“Fate,” Rob said.
They spent every day together. Sophie made excuses to leave them alone.
“You’re single, I’m single… My daughter’s marrying soon—she’d be thrilled. What d’you say?” he asked before she left.
“I… Dad’s difficult. James couldn’t handle—”
“I’m not James. Think I want a maid? My wife and I shared everything. Try me.”
“…Alright. But I need to prep Dad.”
Rob’s return ticket fell through—no swaps. On the train, Sophie drilled her: “Don’t cave. You *deserve* this.”
Emily barely dared hope. She felt lighter, younger. But how would Dad react?
Home, she froze. The flat was *clean*. *Silent*. His phone lay on the table. Heart pounding, she raced to Mrs. Wilkins’—onlyMrs. Wilkins was coming up the stairs with Dad, both laughing, groceries in hand—and for the first time in years, Emily saw her father smile without a single complaint.
