Happiness in the Palm of Her Hand
Larissa studied herself in the mirror—her long face, sharp nose, thin lips, and those cold, pale gray eyes. Why did she have to turn out so plain? The only thing she liked was her hair—thick, jet black, and worn with heavy bangs that fell right into her eyes.
“You take after your father. He was handsome—why else would I have fallen for him? English roots,” her mother would say, trying to comfort her. “When you’re older, you’ll see you’ve got a refined kind of beauty. Not everyone will appreciate it, of course.”
Larissa didn’t remember her father. He’d left before she turned two. But she did remember Uncle Dave—a boisterous, red-faced man who’d toss her in the air, laughing, always bringing sweets, gingerbread, or cheap little toys. She’d climb onto his lap as a child, breathing in his scent—expensive cigarettes and whiskey, her mother later told her. Back then, her mother seemed happy around him. That smell still lingered in her memory—the smell of a real man.
When Larissa got older, she asked her mother why they never married.
“He was already married. Had a son.” Even years later, the sadness in her mother’s voice was unmistakable.
Then there was Uncle Rob. But Larissa got rid of him herself. He smelled of socks and petrol—short, wiry, with a potato nose, a slack lower lip, and downturned eyes that made him look permanently mournful. He rarely smiled, always bringing a bottle of wine or whiskey and a bar of chocolate.
“What’s dinner without wine? Helps unwind after a long day,” he’d say, ignoring the disapproving glare of twelve-year-old Larissa.
At first, her mother drank sparingly. Then she developed a habit. If Rob didn’t come, she’d drink alone, sobbing at the kitchen table. Larissa wasn’t a child—she knew if this kept up, her mother would drown in it.
One day, when her mother was out, Larissa cornered Rob.
“Uncle Rob, are you married?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “How’d you know?”
“Leave. Right now.”
“Since when do you give orders, you little brat? I came to see your mother, not you.”
“Then you came to see me too. And I don’t like you. Either you leave, or I’ll tell your wife everything.”
She never saw him again. Whether he was scared or not didn’t matter. Her mother wept, drank, and waited.
“That’s enough. If you don’t stop, I’ll leave. Understand?” Larissa snatched the bottle and poured it down the sink.
Her mother wailed, blamed her, said she’d ruined her chance at happiness. But she stopped drinking. Once a striking redhead who turned heads, age had dulled her looks, thinned her hair. Fewer men came around—to Larissa’s relief—until eventually, none did.
After school, Larissa enrolled in teacher training college.
“With your looks, it’s perfect,” her mother once sneered.
She met Daniel at a student festival. He was easygoing, funny, reliable. He didn’t rush things, didn’t push for kisses. She grew used to having him around. When, in their second year, he bashfully proposed, Larissa hesitated—too young, too broke.
“You’re making a mistake. With your looks and temper, you won’t find better,” her mother sighed. “He’s kind, doesn’t drink, from a good family… What more do you want? Don’t be a fool.”
So she 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 earlier, and Daniel refused to leave his mother alone.
At night, Larissa could never relax, knowing his mother slept just feet away, hearing everything. They hurried, kept quiet. The thought of kids in those conditions was unthinkable. Mornings were awkward, eyes averted.
His mother ruled the kitchen. “Plenty of time for you to cook later,” she’d say, shooing Larissa away.
Money was tight. Two student stipends and a pension barely covered rent. Daniel took a night security job—two nights on, two off. Larissa dreamed of moving to London after graduation. Most did. But Daniel refused. Wouldn’t leave his mum.
Even when his mother visited her sister, old habits stayed—quick, silent, furtive.
“Let’s get a mortgage,” Larissa begged. “Visit your mum daily, but live on our own.”
“And give my whole salary to the bank? For what? Be patient. We’ll get there.”
Then came the conference in Manchester. A break from lessons, Daniel, the flat. Among the few men there, one stood out—Oliver Lancaster. Women straightened up at his entrance, fixing hair, flashing lipsticked smiles. Larissa, nearly the youngest, watched, amused.
Bored during a dull lecture, she slipped out to the lobby. Oliver followed.
“Deadly dull, right? Fancy a walk? No point leaving without seeing the city.”
She agreed. Early April—snow mostly gone, the River Irwell choppy, sleet coming in bursts. One minute, foggy sleet swallowed the city; the next, weak sun glared.
“Manchester weather—moodier than my ex,” Oliver joked.
They never returned to the conference. His car took them past historic spots. Then, in some quiet backstreet, it happened. Cramped, awkward, stifling. But Larissa was used to that. She stayed the night.
Next morning, they walked in late. The women’s glares screamed, *Him? With that horse-faced nobody?*
The conference ended. Teachers scattered. Larissa lingered, called home, lied about flu. Oliver urged her to stay.
“Ditch that dead end. What’s keeping you? No kids, no future.”
He was divorced—ex-wife remarried, moved to Canada with their daughter.
“Why me?” Larissa asked.
“Why not? You’re extraordinary. Like some exotic bird that flew into the wrong cage. The rest? Walking rulebooks. You belong in films.”
She hesitated. “I can’t just leave. But I’ll think.”
The whole journey home, she debated. The flat felt suffocating. Daniel asked no questions, just hugged her, subdued. That night, she dreaded intimacy—but he left for work. She slept properly for the first time in days.
Back in Manchester, Oliver’s spacious flat haunted her. She brought up the mortgage again. Daniel again said wait.
“I can’t live like this! We’re like siblings. No kids, no space—never! I’m running out of time!”
“I knew this was coming. I don’t blame you. You came back different,” Daniel said calmly.
Next day, Larissa took unpaid leave and left for Manchester. Oliver was thrilled. But a night was one thing; living together, another. She missed Daniel’s jokes, his quiet presence. He’d become part of her. She wondered how he was coping.
Oliver didn’t get it. Got angry at her worrying over “that loser.” Nights, she lay awake. No perfect relationships, no perfect people. She missed Daniel.
Then there was cooking. Burnt potatoes, mushy pasta. Daniel’s mum had done it all.
Oliver skipped her meals—coffee for breakfast, lunch at work, dinner out. It only deepened her regret.
One sleepless night, her phone rang.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Ran off, did you? Left your husband? Always knew you’d do this. Just like your father.”
“You called at 3 AM for this?”
“Couldn’t wait. Daniel’s in hospital. Robbers hit his warehouse. He hit the alarm—they shot him.”
“Alive?” she shrieked, waking Oliver.
“For now. Coma. First General.”
“What happened? Your mum?” Oliver rubbed his eyes.
“I have to go. Now.”
“Wait till morning—I’ll drive you.”
“Call a taxi.”
First flight out. Taxi to the station. Two hours on a stuffy train. Hospital by dawn. The staff resisted, but she begged, wept. Finally, they relented.
She entered the ward—Daniel pale, bandaged, wired to machines. She grabbed his limp hand, pressed her cheek to it, sobbing.
“I’m here. I came back. Forgive me. Just live.”
Nurses tried prying her away. Gave up when she promised to stay quiet.
Exhausted, she dozed off against his arm.
“Larrie? That you?” A groggy whisper.
“Daniel! You’re awake!” She bolted for the door. “Doctor! Now!”
His mother arrived later. No blame, just tears. Apologies, fear for her son.
After discharge, Larissa visited her mum—and found Uncle Dave there.
“Your mum and I… I finally divorced,” he said, grinning at Larissa’s blHer mother squeezed her hand and whispered, “Everything will be alright now,” and Larissa finally believed it.
