Happiness in the Palm of Her Hand
Lauren studied her reflection in the mirror: an angular face, a long sharp nose, thin lips, and cold, pale gray eyes. Why did she have to be so plain? Only her hair pleased her—thick, raven-black strands falling over her forehead in a heavy fringe.
“You take after your father. He was handsome, or else I wouldn’t have fallen for him. Scottish roots,” her mother reassured her. “When you’re older, you’ll see you have a refined beauty. Not everyone will appreciate it, of course.”
Lauren barely remembered her father. He’d left before she turned two. But she did recall Uncle Robert—a boisterous man with a ruddy face who’d toss her in the air, laughing. He always brought sweets, biscuits, or some cheap toy. As a child, she loved climbing onto his lap, breathing in his scent—expensive cigars and whisky, her mother later told her. Back then, Mum had seemed happy with him. Even now, Lauren associated that smell with what a real man ought to be.
When she was older, she asked why they never married.
“He had a wife. A son,” her mother replied, her voice heavy with regret, even years later.
Then came Uncle William. Lauren had loathed him. He smelled of engine oil and unwashed socks—small, wiry, with a potato-like nose and a slack lower lip that left his mouth perpetually half-open. His downturned eyes gave him a mournful look. He rarely smiled, always arriving with a bottle of wine or a bar of chocolate.
“What’s dinner without wine? Helps take the edge off after work,” he’d say, noticing Lauren’s disapproving glare at twelve.
At first, Mum drank lightly, then slid into dependency. If William didn’t visit, she’d drink alone at the kitchen table, sobbing. Lauren wasn’t a child—she knew where this was heading. One day, while her mother was out, she confronted him.
“Uncle William, are you married?”
He blinked rapidly, caught off guard.
“How did you know?”
“Leave. Now,” she demanded sharply.
“Oi, who put you in charge, shrimp? I came to see your mum, not you.”
“That means me too. And I don’t like you. Either go, or I’ll tell your wife everything.”
Whether he was scared or not, he never came back. Mum wept, drank, and waited.
“That’s it. If you don’t stop, I’m leaving. You hear me?” Lauren snatched the bottle and poured it down the sink.
Her mother wailed, blaming Lauren for ruining her chances at love. But she stopped drinking. Once a striking redhead, Mum had attracted men easily. Now, her hair thinned and grayed, and the visitors dwindled—much to Lauren’s relief.
After school, Lauren enrolled in teacher training college.
“With your looks, it’s the safest choice,” Mum said once, spitefully.
She met Daniel at a student festival. He was kind, steady, never rushing things or pushing for affection. Lauren grew used to his quiet presence. When he proposed shyly in their second year, she hesitated—they were students, barely scraping by.
“Ridiculous. With your face and temper, you’ll struggle to find anyone better. He’s decent, doesn’t drink, educated… What more do you want? Don’t be daft.”
So Lauren agreed. After a modest wedding, they moved into Daniel’s tiny flat—cramped kitchen, narrow hallway, paper-thin walls. His father had died of a heart attack two years prior, and Daniel refused to leave his mother alone.
At night, Lauren could never relax, knowing Daniel’s mum slept just beyond the wall, hearing everything. Their intimacy became rushed, silent. Children were out of the question. Mornings were spent avoiding each other’s eyes.
His mother ruled the kitchen, insisting Lauren would “have decades of cooking ahead.” Money was tight—two student grants and a pension weren’t enough. Daniel took night shifts as a warehouse guard. Lauren dreamed of moving to London after graduation, but he refused to abandon his mother. Even when she visited her sister, old habits stayed.
“Let’s get a mortgage. You can visit Mum daily, but we’ll have our own space.”
“And spend everything on repayments? Be patient. We’ll get there.”
Then came a three-day teaching conference in Edinburgh. Lauren relished the break. Among the few men there, the handsome Alex Lancaster stood out. Women preened in his presence—fixing hair, flashing lipsticked smiles. Lauren, the youngest, scoffed at their antics.
Bored by a dull lecture, she slipped out. Alex followed.
“Rubbish, isn’t it? Fancy seeing the city instead?”
They wandered Edinburgh’s streets—misty sleet one moment, blinding sun the next. “Scottish weather’s as fickle as a woman’s mood,” Alex quipped. They never returned to the conference. His car, a secluded alley—clumsy, hot, rushed. Lauren was used to discomfort. She spent the night at his place.
The next day, they arrived late. “Him and that beak-faced scarecrow?” the women’s glances seemed to say.
When the conference ended, Lauren stayed behind. She called home, feigning flu. Alex urged her to leave her “dead-end life.”
“Why me?” she asked.
“You’re different—like some exotic bird trapped here. The rest? Walking rulebooks. You belong on film.”
“I can’t just vanish. But I’ll think about it.”
The journey home was spent weighing his offer. The moment she stepped into the cramped flat, regret hit. Daniel asked no questions, just held her quietly. That night, she dreaded his touch—but he left for work. For the first time in days, she slept deeply.
Back in Alex’s spacious flat, she’d begged for a mortgage again. Daniel only pleaded for patience.
“I can’t do this anymore. We’re like siblings. You won’t change anything. We’ll never have a home. Never.”
“I knew this was coming. I don’t blame you. You came back different.”
The next day, Lauren took unpaid leave and left for Edinburgh. Alex was thrilled—but living together wasn’t the same. His tenderness couldn’t replace Daniel’s quiet understanding. She missed their jokes, his presence. Nights were sleepless, the bed too big without him.
Worse, she couldn’t cook. Burnt potatoes, mushy pasta—Daniel’s mother had done it all. Alex skipped breakfast, ate at work, dined out. Lauren’s guilt grew.
One sleepless night, her phone rang.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Run off, have you? Left your husband? Knew you would. Just like your father.”
“You called at midnight for this?”
“Couldn’t wait. Daniel’s in hospital. Robbers hit his warehouse. He triggered the alarm, but they shot him.”
“Alive?” she shrieked, forgetting Alex beside her.
“Barely. In a coma.”
Alex stirred. “Your mum?”
“I have to go. Now.”
“Wait till morning. I’ll drive you.”
“No. Call a taxi.”
She flew home, took a train, reached the hospital at dawn. The staff resisted, but she begged until they relented. Daniel lay pale, bandaged, machines blinking. She clutched his limp hand, sobbing.
“I’m here. I’m back. Forgive me. Just live.”
Hours later, exhaustion pulled her under. A whisper woke her.
“Laurie… you?”
“He’s awake!” She screamed for the doctor.
Daniel’s mother arrived later—no blame, just silent grief. After discharge, Lauren took him to her mother’s, where a surprise waited: Robert, divorced at last, and Mum glowing.
“His ex kept their old flat. We thought you and Daniel should have it.”
Lauren hugged her, stunned by the ease between them—no snide remarks, just quiet understanding.
Life stitched itself back together. Daniel healed slowly—the bullet had nicked his lung, barely missing his heart. That first night in their new home, Lauren hesitated.
“Rest. I’ll take the sofa.”
“Stay.” He pulled her close.
Happiness was like that—chased madly, only to realize it had been there all along, waiting in an outstretched hand.
Three months later, Lauren was pregnant. Terrified it might be Alex’s, she pestered the doctor.
“No. The timing’s wrong. Tell your husband and relax. Stress isn’t good for you.”
