A Step Away from Happiness
From childhood, Emily had been pretty—petite, fair-haired, with a lovely figure and a face to match. After university, she stayed to work in London. The only thing missing was love. She never lacked male attention, but no one ever asked for her hand. And now she was nearly thirty.
At first, she joked there was no rush, she had time. But then she grew sad. Time, after all, could be a cruel friend.
“Maybe someone cursed you? Think, did you ever cross anyone?” her mother’s friend had asked last New Year’s Eve.
“I never crossed anyone, never took what wasn’t mine, never broke up a family,” Emily replied firmly.
“Then someone must’ve been terribly jealous,” Auntie Irene said with certainty.
Emily didn’t argue. She’d known envy before—even from girls at school. Boys flocked to her, but she focused on studies, saving love for later.
Her mother raised her alone. They weren’t poor, but they weren’t lavish either. Mum was an excellent knitter. Emily had countless delicate, cosy, trendy jumpers in every colour. Mum even sold them.
“Don’t say such things, Irene! She’s got plenty of suitors. She’s got time to choose,” her mother defended her.
“Suitors, yes. But where’s a husband? Or at least a decent lover?” Irene pressed.
“What’s the difference?” her mother snapped.
She refused to imagine her clever daughter as someone’s mistress.
“Just a stamp in the passport—and that matters for a child’s future. Sometimes a lover’s better than a husband…” And Irene launched into her usual tale of how her lover bought her a flat and paid for her son’s schooling, while her useless, drunken husband was long gone.
That’s when Emily decided she wouldn’t spend New Year’s with Mum again. She’d had enough of these talks. Better alone.
As the holiday approached, Emily walked carefully, watching her step to avoid slipping. She moved aside to let a woman with a pram pass.
“Emily!” the woman suddenly cried, stopping. “Don’t you recognise me? It’s Sarah! Sarah Miller—well, Baker now!”
“Sarah,” Emily forced a smile. “You look different. Living in London now? Long?”
“Three years! Fancy bumping into you like this. I heard you—” Sarah was clearly about to launch into questions.
“Yours?” Emily cut in, steering the topic away. Mothers loved boasting about their children. “May I see?”
“Of course. My little girl.” Sarah’s voice warmed with pride.
Emily peered into the pram. Nestled in lacy white, wearing a pink knitted hat pulled low, slept a tiny miracle. Long lashes rested on plump cheeks, lips like a bow. The scent of milk, sleepy warmth, and wool drifted up.
“Lovely. Takes after her father?”
“Oh, yes! When she was born—” Sarah beamed.
“Sorry, I’m in a rush. We’ll catch up another time,” Emily said, hurrying off.
Her mood soured. *Of all people, I had to run into her. She was a plain little mouse at school, utterly forgettable. And yet—married, living in London, a baby. Radiant happiness. And where’s mine? Years pass, and I’m still alone…*
Lost in thought, she reached her flat without noticing. She’d decorated her tree a week ago. The initial joy had faded; now it just annoyed her, a reminder of the holiday she’d spend alone.
Just as she changed and put the kettle on, her phone rang. It was Robert.
“Home already, sweetheart? I’ll be there soon.”
For a moment, she considered lying—saying she was at a friend’s, telling him not to come. The passion had long gone, leaving only habit. He’d divorced years ago, and Emily hadn’t been the reason, but he still lived with his ex for their daughter’s sake, or so he claimed.
She sighed, said she was home, and went to cook dinner. Robert arrived half an hour later with a gift bag.
“Here, love. In case I don’t make it before New Year’s. Work’s mad, year-end reports, promised my girl I’d take her to the pantomime…”
She didn’t care about his excuses but was pleased with the gift—a set of red lingerie and a velvet box holding a gold chain with a heart pendant.
“Thank you!” She kissed his cheek. Her mood lifted.
“Can’t stay for dinner. Sorry, should’ve said earlier.” He led her to the bedroom…
It was nice but brief. Afterward, as he dressed, she suddenly asked, “How old’s your daughter?”
She sat on the bed, the sheet pulled up. Robert froze, trousers in hand, eyes rolling upward as if searching for the answer. One leg was already in. Then she noticed his other foot—pale, hairless, the skin bluish under a black sock. It looked revoltingly cold, like a plucked chicken’s leg. She looked away, regretting the question. *Why did I ever fancy him?* She’d even thought of marrying him if he’d asked.
“Ten, I think. Yeah, ten.” He pulled on the other trouser leg.
She remembered herself at ten—skinny as a twig, pigtails, big eyes. Her dad had left when she was seven. She pitied Robert’s daughter.
When he finally left with a parting kiss, she balled up the sheets, tossed them in the wash, and stepped into the shower. *No more. Enough. Let him live with his family.*
That weekend, she slept in, had breakfast, and headed out to shop for Mum’s gift. She’d visit after New Year’s, maybe the first or second. She’d already bought yarn but wanted boots too—they wore the same size. Walking, she replayed yesterday’s encounter.
*Even plain Sarah’s married. I’d make a good wife. I can cook, knit. Imagine the lovely things I’d make for a child… Why do some get happiness, while it passes others by? I don’t want a millionaire. Just a decent man who’ll stay, who’ll love me. Is that too much?* She stepped onto a crossing without checking the lights.
Horns blared as cars screeched to a halt. Emily walked on, shoulders hunched, ignoring the noise. She made it across, tears streaking her cheeks.
“You’re crying. What’s wrong? Did someone die?” A man blocked her path. “Only grief makes someone risk their life like that.”
She stared blankly.
“Come on.” He opened a café door.
She obeyed, shrugging off her coat and sitting at the nearest table. He touched her hand.
“Freezing. Let’s warm you up.” He signalled the waiter, and soon steaming coffee appeared.
She cradled the cup, sighing as warmth seeped in.
“So why the tears? Husband trouble?” He switched to familiarity.
She hadn’t noticed—or the wine glasses now on the table.
“Drink up, it’ll help.” He sipped first. She followed. Warmth spread through her.
“That’s better. You’ve got your wits back. Thought something awful’d happened. I’m James.”
“Emily.” She smiled.
“Really? My mum’s name. Fancy a chat?”
And before she knew it, she’d told him everything—Robert, Mum’s knitting, turning thirty alone.
James listened without interrupting. Then he drained his wine and said, “You’re a catch. Beautiful, domestic, knits. Girls these days only care about clubbing and shopping. Ditch that bloke—”
“I already have. He’s got a daughter.”
“Good. Forget the past. Mine’s messy too—another time.” He checked his watch. “I’ll walk you home. Then, properly, I’ll come back with flowers, and we’ll start fresh.”
They saw in the New Year together. And as they say, how you greet it is how you’ll spend it. Later, they visited Mum. They didn’t wait long—married by April.
On a warm May day in the park, Emily spotted Robert with his stout wife and equally stout daughter, her mirror image. She turned away, searching for James. He hurried over with two ice creams.
“Too gorgeous—men can’t help staring,” he said, kissing her cheek. She knew who he meant but didn’t look back.
By the next winter, they had a beautiful son. New Year’s was now a family affair—Mum came, bringing an armful of tiny blue and white knits for the baby.
Once, pushing the pram, Emily saw Sarah leading her toddler, bundled up like a little bear. Proudly, she showed off her son.
Walking home, Emily smiled. Soon she’d undress and smother her long-awaited joy in kisses, make dinner, and wait for James. What more could a woman want?
