**A Holiday for Happiness**
We spend all year dreaming of our holiday, preparing for it, hoping we’ll return happy. But often, the opposite happens…
Back in May, James and Emily had started planning their getaway—where to go, where to stay. Emily wanted the golden beaches of Brighton, with its shallow waters stretching nearly a kilometre, the sea warm as bathwater. Perfect for little Alfie.
“You want to bring the kid?” James asked flatly.
“You say that like he’s only *my* child. Yes, obviously. What’s the problem? People travel with babies all the time.”
“Not if we’ve got Mum to look after him. Ask her, she won’t refuse. Or we can drag all the sleepless nights, nappies, and tantrums along with us. What kind of holiday would that be?”
Emily agreed with her husband. But she couldn’t imagine leaving Alfie for ten whole days.
Her mother sided with James.
“Go alone, have a proper break. He’s too young—you’ll just exhaust yourselves, and he won’t even remember it.”
“Look at this hotel I found. And the view? From the top floors, you can see the sea.” James turned his laptop toward her.
“What does the view matter? You’re going *to* the sea, not to stare at it from a hotel window,” Emily said. “The beach is pebbly—no lounging there.”
“That’s what sunbeds are for. At least we won’t be dragging sand back into the room.”
James always had the right argument. And Emily always gave in because she loved him madly. Where they went, what the beach was like—none of it mattered, as long as she was with him. In their two and a half years together, nothing had changed.
“Flying’s best. More expensive, but faster,” James declared.
Emily, meanwhile, worried about Alfie. He might be small, but he’d notice her absence, miss her, cry. Would her mum cope?
“So, should I book the hotel?” James pulled her from her thoughts.
“Yes, go ahead.”
They saw everything differently—including family. James had lost his parents young, raised by his grandparents. His grandfather passed when James finished school; his grandmother followed two years later.
When they met, James was already living alone. Emily moved in almost immediately, and together they decorated, turning the flat into *their* nest. Everyone envied her.
“You’re lucky, Em. Gorgeous fiancé, and a flat of his own—no interfering mother-in-law. Don’t take it for granted, or someone might snatch him,” her friend teased.
“You, for instance?” Emily laughed.
“Well, I’m not exactly hard to look at, am I?”
The first disappointment came a month after the wedding, just before Emily’s birthday. James flatly told her not to invite her mum.
“Our friends are coming—she’d just be bored.”
“It’s *her* day too. She gave birth to me, raised me. How do I even tell her?”
“Invite her the next day. Tea and cake, just us.”
Emily hated it but didn’t argue—she loved him. Her mum acted unbothered, visiting the next day with a lovely tea set. James showered her with compliments, kissed her cheek, thanked her for raising Emily. Crisis averted.
That set the pattern: holidays were for James’s friends, most still renting or living with parents. Her mother was never invited.
“If you love him, accept him as he is. He grew up without parents—he doesn’t understand family,” her mum said. “And don’t fight over me. Birthdays come and go. A wife must be patient. Start arguing now, and it’ll end badly. You’ve got Alfie—he needs his father. Raising a child alone is hard, believe me.”
Emily left Alfie with her mum while she shopped. Post-pregnancy weight clung to her; dresses no longer fit, and she needed a new swimsuit. In a new sundress, she twirled before the mirror.
“Love it? It’ll look even better once I’ve tanned.” She turned to James.
“Fine. You look washed out in it. Makes you look bigger,” he said, barely glancing up.
It hit her like ice water. She studied her reflection critically. Before the wedding, she’d been slim, light, effortless. Then came breastfeeding, and curves she couldn’t shake.
“You used to love that my chest got bigger,” she muttered.
She hated the dress now, stuffed it away.
“Don’t take it personally. It’s just not your colour,” James amended.
Departure day approached. Emily packed slowly, clinging to Alfie, breathing him in, regretting her decision to leave him. Better to skip the holiday—what was the sea compared to him? Alfie should be splashing in the waves, running on hot sand, laughing. *Next year*, she thought. *We’ll go as a family. James will teach him to swim. If…*
She chased the thought away. Where had it come from? They never *really* fought. They loved each other. *No “ifs,”* she told herself.
She ate less, studied herself daily in the mirror, willing the weight away. But even if she slimmed down, she’d never be the girl James fell for.
They dropped Alfie at her mum’s on the way to the airport. James fidgeted as Emily smothered him with kisses.
“Enough. You’re saying goodbye like you’re leaving forever,” her mum chided, taking Alfie. “Look, he’s getting fussy—he senses it. Go, before he starts wailing.”
James was giddy as a child. On the plane, he flirted with the stewardesses. Emily had noticed before: any pretty woman nearby, and he turned on the charm. Married barely two years, and already he looked elsewhere. What next?
“Em, want juice? Em!” He nudged her.
“No, thanks.”
“Stop sulking. Alfie *fine* with your mum. We’ll bring him seashells…”
Emily forced a smile, pushing the dark thoughts away.
The hotel room was small but comfortable, with air conditioning. The sea was steps away.
“Freedom!” James lifted her, spun her, dropped her onto the bed. “Ready for the beach?” He bounced up.
“Yeah. Just let me change…”
The beach was packed, everyone bronzed. Emily hesitated before stripping to her swimsuit.
“Come on. The faster you undress, the faster you tan,” James said, shimmying out of his jeans. His legs were pale, almost blue, but he didn’t care—or pretended not to. Emily followed suit, grateful her swimsuit hid her tummy. She eyed the slender girls with perfect figures enviously.
The sea was warm, gentle, refreshing. Kids waded in rubber sandals. *”Alfie would struggle here…”*
Of course, she burned fast. James hated leaving the beach. Guilt gnawed at her. At lunch, his gaze trailed every passing girl. That night, he pulled her close, kissed her.
“Careful, it hurts,” she whispered.
Her skin burned; every touch stung. He rolled away, stared at the ceiling, arms behind his head.
“Jamie, it’s not my fault—”
He turned sharply to the wall.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. We’ll lose the sunbeds. Up.” His mood had flipped—yesterday’s tension gone.
Her skin still screamed, but she didn’t protest. A long skirt and blouse covered most of her, but sunscreen didn’t stop the sun’s bite.
“Jamie, let’s go back. I’m burned.”
“We came for the beach, not to hide inside. Should’ve been smarter yesterday.”
She left, hoping he’d follow. He didn’t.
He returned hours later, cheerful.
“Starving. Quick shower, then dinner?”
Emily dressed carefully. Even fabric hurt.
At dinner, *those* girls appeared again—floppy hats, skimpy swimsuits. James kept glancing their way.
“They’re pretty,” Emily said.
“What?”
“The girls. I need a hat too—my nose is burned.”
She imagined the scene: her husband blatantly eyeing other women. Her appetite vanished.
“I’m going. I feel feverish.”
James caught her outside.
“What’s this drama?”
“You’re making me feel like a fool. Yes, they’re slim—for now. After kids, they’ll look like me, or worse. You stared right in front of me.”
“Don’t make a scene,” he hissed.
Silence all the way back. In the room, he flopped onto the bed, arms behind his head.
She snapped: “I’m jealous.”
“You’re right. Should’ve stayed home,” he said, standing.
“Where are you going?”
“Out. Not sitting here. Take a pill, sleep.”
“With *them*?”
“You’re unbearable.” He left.
She cried silently. *Why? When didShe knew then, as the door clicked shut behind him, that this holiday had broken something between them forever.
