**Happiness in the Palm of My Hand**
Emily studied her reflection in the mirror—her long face, sharp nose, thin lips, and cool, pale grey eyes. Of all the ways to turn out, she had to end up like this. The only thing she liked was her hair—thick and black—which she wore with a long fringe hanging right over her eyes.
“You take after your father. He was handsome, or I wouldn’t have fallen for him. Welsh blood,” her mother would reassure her. “You’ll understand when you’re older—you’ve got a refined beauty. Not everyone sees it, of course.”
Emily didn’t remember her father. He’d left before she was even two. What she did remember was Uncle Rob—a jolly, red-faced man who’d toss her in the air and laugh. He always came by with sweets or cheap little toys. As a child, she loved clambering onto his lap and breathing in his scent. Her mother later told her it was the smell of expensive cigars and whiskey. Back then, her mother seemed happy with him, brighter. Emily still remembered that scent—she thought of it as the smell of a real man.
When she was older, she asked why they’d never married.
“He was married. Had a son,” her mother answered, and even years later, the sorrow still clung to her voice.
Then there was Uncle Bill. But Emily had been the one to drive him away. He smelled of engine oil and old socks—short, wiry, with a bulbous nose and a slack lower lip that left his mouth half-open. His downturned eyes gave him a permanently sad look. He rarely smiled, always bringing a bottle of wine or whiskey and a bar of chocolate.
“Who has dinner without wine? Helps unwind after a long day,” he’d say, catching Emily’s disapproving glare at twelve years old.
At first, her mother drank little. Then it became a habit. She started buying bottles herself. If Uncle Bill didn’t come over, she drank alone at the kitchen table, crying. Emily wasn’t a child—she knew if this kept up, her mother would drink herself into ruin.
One day, when her mother was out, Emily sat across from Uncle Bill and asked bluntly, “Are you married?”
He hesitated, blinking rapidly. “How’d you know?”
“Leave. Now,” she demanded.
“Listen here, you little brat—I came to see your mum, not you.”
“That includes me. And I don’t like you. Either you go, or I’ll tell your wife everything.”
Whether he was scared or not didn’t matter—she never saw him again. Her mother wept, drank, waited.
“Enough. If you don’t stop, I’ll leave,” Emily threatened, snatching the bottle and pouring it down the sink.
Her mother sobbed, accused her of ruining her happiness. But she stopped drinking. Once a striking redhead who turned heads, age had dulled her looks. The thick hair had thinned and greyed. Men stopped coming around—first rarely, then not at all—much to Emily’s relief.
Emily studied teaching at university after school.
“With your looks, it’s the right choice,” her mother said bitterly once.
She met Daniel at a student festival. He was easygoing, interesting, steady. He didn’t rush things, didn’t push for kisses. She grew used to him always being there.
When, in their second year, he nervously proposed, Emily said it was too soon—they were students; how would they live?
“You’re making a mistake. With your looks and temper, you’ll struggle to find a husband. Say yes, or you’ll end up alone,” her mother sighed. “He’s steady, doesn’t drink, from a good family… What more do you want? Don’t be a fool.”
So she agreed. After a small wedding, they moved into Daniel’s tiny flat—cramped kitchen, narrow hallway, thin walls. Two years earlier, his father had died of a heart attack, and Daniel wouldn’t leave his mother alone.
At night, Emily couldn’t relax, knowing Daniel’s mother was just behind the wall, listening. So they hurried, kept quiet. Children were out of the question.
His mother ruled the tiny kitchen. When Emily offered to help, she’d shoo her away—”You’ll have plenty of time for that later.”
Money was tight. Student grants and his mother’s pension weren’t enough. Daniel took a night security job, working two nights on, two off. Emily dreamed of moving to London after graduation—everyone did it—but Daniel refused. He wouldn’t leave his mother.
Even when his mother visited her sister for a few days, old habits stayed—quick, quiet.
“Let’s get a mortgage,” Emily begged. “We’ll visit your mum, but we’ll have our own place.”
“And spend every penny on rent? How do we live? Just a little longer,” he’d say.
Then, sent to a teaching conference in Edinburgh, Emily relished the break—from school, Daniel, the flat. Few men attended, and the women fawned over the handful there. Especially striking was Alistair MacGregor. Women straightened up when he walked in—adjusting hair, smiling wider. Emily, one of the youngest, watched with amusement.
Bored during a dull lecture, she slipped out to the lobby. Alistair followed.
“Dreadful, isn’t it? Fancy a walk instead?”
She agreed. April snow lingered, wet flakes peppering the wind. The city flickered between fog and sharp sunlight.
“Edinburgh weather—changes like a woman’s mind,” Alistair joked.
They didn’t return to the conference. He drove her around the city’s sights. It happened in a quiet backstreet—awkward, rushed, stifling. But Emily was used to discomfort. She stayed the night.
Next morning, they walked in late. “Him? With *her*?” the other women’s stares said.
After the conference, Emily lingered with Alistair. She called home, lied about the flu, even coughed for effect.
“Leave that miserable life. What’s keeping you?” Alistair urged when she confessed her marriage.
He’d been married briefly—his ex-wife had remarried and moved to Canada with their daughter.
“Why me?” Emily asked.
“Why not? You’re extraordinary. Like some exotic bird lost here. The rest? Walking rulebooks. You should be in films.”
“I can’t just leave. But I’ll think about it.”
On the train home, she weighed Alistair’s offer. The flat felt like a cage the moment she stepped in. Daniel didn’t ask questions, just seemed quietly glad she was back. That night, she dreaded—he’d want her. But he worked. She slept properly for the first time in days.
Remembering Alistair’s spacious flat, she brought up the mortgage again. Daniel stalled.
“I can’t live like this! We’re like siblings! We’ll never have our own place. Never. I can’t even think of children here!” she whispered.
“I knew this talk would come. I don’t blame you. You came back different,” he said softly.
Next day, Emily took unpaid leave and went to Edinburgh. Alistair was thrilled—but staying a night was one thing; living together another. She missed Daniel’s teasing, their talks. He’d become part of her. She couldn’t stop wondering how he was.
Alistair didn’t understand. He snapped at her worry over her “loser husband.” Nights, she lay awake. No relationship was perfect. She couldn’t get used to Alistair beside her in that big bed.
Then there was the cooking. Burnt potatoes, mushy pasta. Daniel’s mother had done it all.
Alistair skipped breakfast, ate lunch at work, took her out for dinner. It only made Emily more certain she’d made a mistake.
One sleepless night, as she agonized over whether to stay with Alistair or go back, the phone rang.
“Emily? You ran off? Left your husband? I expected as much. You’re just like your father.”
“Did you call at midnight to say that?”
“No. Daniel’s in hospital. Robbers hit the warehouse. He hit the alarm, but they shot him.”
“Alive?” she screamed.
“For now. Coma. First City Hospital.”
Beside her, Alistair stirred. “Your mum?”
“I have to go.”
“Wait till morning—I’ll drive you.”
“No. Call a taxi.”
She took the first flight, then a train, reached the hospital at dawn. They wouldn’t let her in. Too early.
“Please. He’s my husband,” she begged until they relented.
Daniel lay pale, bandaged, wired to machines. She took his limp hand, pressed her cheek to it, sobbing.
“I’m here. I’m back. Forgive me. Just live.”
Staff tried prying her away, then gave up when she promised to stay quiet.
Hours later, exhausted, she fell asleep on his arm.
“Em…?”She opened her eyes to see him smiling weakly, and in that moment, she knew she’d found her way home.
