Happiness arrives when you believe and wait for it.
In Year 8, during the school Christmas party, Elsie slipped away with Tom. They longed to be alone, and suddenly, the snow began to fall in great feathery flakes, as if some unseen hand had torn open a pillow filled with swan’s down—and the snow kept tumbling, endless and silent.
Tom took Elsie’s hands in his, her fingers cold, and pressed them to his lips, warming them with his breath. They’d been friends since childhood, but now something deeper had grown between them. Both knew their childhood had slipped away—where to, they couldn’t say—but at least they still had each other. They hoped it would last a lifetime.
“God, how long ago that was,” Elsie thought, “and where is Tom now?”
At thirty-two, she’d never married. Life had taken its own path, and much of it had been shaped by her mother, Margaret. Without her, it might have all been different.
Elsie had been an ordinary girl, always running, playing, laughing with her dearest friends—Tom and Lucy. Since primary school, Tom had carried her bag, helped her with sums, defended her from stray dogs and rowdy boys. His own home was troubled: his father drank, often throwing his wife and son out into the night. They’d take shelter at Elsie’s, where Margaret would shake her head at Tom’s mother, Valerie.
“Val, why do you put up with this? Leave him—this isn’t a life.”
“I’m staying for Tom,” Valerie would reply.
“Is this how a boy should see his father? What will he learn from him?” But Valerie just shrugged.
Later, Margaret would scold Elsie.
“Darling, you shouldn’t spend so much time with Tom.”
“Mum, Tom’s the truest friend—brave and kind!” Elsie always defended him.
“You’ll see when you’re older. He’ll turn out just like his father—a drunk and a brute. Plenty of other lads about.”
But Elsie wouldn’t listen. Tom was her sworn companion, her partner in every adventure—daring each other to swim too far in the river (though he never let her struggle), standing at the cliff’s edge, once almost tumbling over.
As they grew, their friendship only deepened. Lucy tagged along often, though when she took a liking to Michael from another class, she drifted away—not that Tom or Elsie minded.
Then, after the Christmas holidays in Year 8, Elsie fell and broke her leg. It was a bad break—the doctors kept her in hospital for weeks.
Margaret wept. “Darling, how will you manage? You’ll limp forever!”
But Elsie was determined. She swore she’d walk again, cast or no cast. Even the doctor remarked on her stubbornness: “Your daughter’s made of steel—she’ll do it.” And she did. First steps. Then hops on crutches. Finally, a cane.
Her classmates visited, even the head of year. Tom and Lucy? They never missed a day. Tom brought jam tarts, blackberry preserves, books she loved.
When she was discharged, she still limped, her leg aching. The doctor suggested a change of air—so Margaret moved them south, to the coast, where her younger sister lived.
“Darling, we’re leaving. The sea air will help.”
“Mum, I don’t want to! All my friends are here!” But Margaret wouldn’t hear it.
The farewell was wretched. Tom looked devastated—so did Elsie.
“No matter what, Elsie—don’t forget me. I’ll never forget you. We’ll write,” he promised, hugging her tightly—then kissing her, properly, for the first time.
In their new town, they lodged with relatives. Elsie wrote letters—but none arrived. None came in return. Margaret had made sure of it. She was glad to have pulled Elsie from Tom’s grasp, while Elsie only felt betrayed.
The new school was cruel. The girls and boys—though nearly grown—mocked her limp, calling her “Hop-along.”
She had no friends. She buried herself in books, thought of Tom constantly, resented him for not writing. She tried again, but no reply came.
After college, Elsie became a teacher. While she was studying for exams, Margaret took a trip back home—timed, perhaps, so Elsie couldn’t join.
When she returned, Margaret said, “Forget that Tom. He’s married now. A father. I never liked him.”
Elsie was crushed. She threw herself into work, teaching English, still leaning on her cane, believing no man could want her.
“I’m too flawed,” she told herself, though she was lovely. “Plenty of whole women out there—why me?”
Nights were the worst. Tom haunted her dreams—soaring over cliffs hand in hand, happier than she’d ever been.
Years passed. Her classmates married—she even attended some weddings. But Elsie’s light dimmed. Men still noticed her, yet she refused them all. Perhaps she didn’t believe.
Then, needing repairs done on their cottage, she posted an advert. Stephen answered—a skilled man in his thirties.
From the first day, it was clear: Stephen had golden hands. Margaret noticed how he looked at Elsie, despite her limp—but she ignored him.
“Darling, he’s capable. Handsome. Likes you. What more do you need? Still pining for Tom? He’s married—let go.”
Finally, Elsie listened.
“Maybe Mum’s right.” She let Stephen court her. Soon, he moved in—still fixing the house.
“Elsie—marry me?” he asked. “Feels odd living here like a stray.”
She believed him. Said yes. Even filed the papers.
Then—a knock. Stephen was out. A woman stood there—a policeman beside her.
“You’re Elsie?”
The woman, exhausted, handed over marriage certificates. Three birth certificates.
“Read it.”
Stephen was her husband. They had three children. The policeman was her cousin. They’d tracked him down—he’d abandoned them.
“He got bored,” the wife said. “Lost his passport. Started fresh.”
Stephen returned, tried to flee—handcuffed instead.
After that, Elsie gave up entirely.
Then Margaret fell ill—suddenly afraid.
“Darling—I must confess. Maybe God’s punishing me.”
“What?”
“I told the postmistress—your letters to Tom and Lucy were never sent. I couldn’t let you marry him. Not with his father. I brought us here to keep you apart. Forgive me.”
Elsie was numb. Betrayed by her own mother.
“Was he really married?”
“I don’t know. When I visited, they’d moved. Valerie left his father.”
“Lucy—still there?”
“Yes. Married, divorced—remarrying soon.”
Elsie wrote. Lucy called.
“Ellie! At last! Come to my wedding—I’ve a surprise.”
The day was merry, crowded. But Elsie’s heart ached—no Tom. She stepped outside, sat beneath a birch.
Then—a tall man approached. She looked up—stunned.
“Ellie. Hello.” He pulled her close. “How are you?”
His smile was warmth itself. She buried her face in his chest.
“Fine. Lucy warned me about a surprise.”
“Me too.” He laughed. “Mum and I live nearby. I always hoped you’d return.”
“Not married?”
“No.”
“Nor me. Been waiting.”
After the wedding, they visited his mother—then went home. Margaret wept, seeing Elsie’s joy. Their own wedding was quiet: just them, their mothers. Later, Valerie sold her house and moved closer.
Now they live in love—raising twin boys, fifteen. Elsie teaches; Tom farms.
Elsie knows happiness comes to those who wait—and believe.
