**The Road to Happiness**
William walked home from work. It was a bit of a distance, but the evening was warm, still, and quiet. On nights like these, he didn’t regret not owning a car. He strolled, enjoying the warmth and the promise of summer.
Most of his life, William had lived with his parents in the heart of London, accustomed to the bustle and noise. But recently, he’d moved to the outskirts, a quiet suburban neighborhood. He’d come home and go straight to bed, only to wake early and return to the lively, vibrant city center for work.
At night, a curious moon peered through his window, unobstructed by trees or other buildings—William had yet to buy proper curtains. He lived on the twelfth floor of a new block, overlooking open fields and the distant treeline. At first, he’d wake in the middle of the night, disoriented by the blue moonlight filling the room. Then he’d remember where he was, calm himself, and drift back to sleep.
***
Just two years earlier, he hadn’t known shared council flats even existed—not the cramped tenement-style ones of the past, but still unpleasant, living with strangers, sharing bathrooms and kitchens.
William had grown up in a modest, happy home—a two-bedroom flat in London with high ceilings, spacious rooms, and a long, narrow hallway leading to a tiny kitchen. His mother worked as a nursery teacher, his father as a bus driver. They weren’t rich, but they could afford the occasional seaside holiday.
Everything fell apart in a single day. His father hadn’t broken any rules—he’d waited for the green light, steadily accelerating the bus—when a woman with a wheeled suitcase darted across the road. His father slammed the brakes, but you can’t stop a bus that quickly. The woman was flung like a toy, dead before reaching the hospital.
She’d been in a hurry, rushing for a train. Her son-in-law had promised to drive her but changed his plans last minute. They’d argued, and she stormed off, thinking she could dash across in time.
That same son-in-law later screamed in court that a drunk driver had killed his beloved mother-in-law, demanding the harshest punishment. True, the night before, the depot had thrown a retirement party for a colleague—they’d all had a drink. But the morning medical check showed no signs of intoxication. His father barely drank. Yet somehow, the records mysteriously showed alcohol above the legal limit.
To protect his fellow drivers, his father admitted to having a drink at his wife’s friend’s birthday party. He took the blame. His mother wept, distraught. Money grew tight—a nursery teacher’s wages weren’t much. William declared he wouldn’t go to university; he’d get a job instead.
“Oh, so you want the army now? First your father, then you? What’s next?” his mother sobbed.
To calm her, he promised to keep studying. Then, just before graduation, his father died in prison of a heart attack. As promised, William enrolled—yet two years later, his mother remarried and moved out, leaving him alone in their old flat. She paid the bills, sent him money—anything to keep him in school. Her new husband, a high-ranking civil servant, could afford it. Though William rarely remembered exactly what the man did.
When his friends found out he had an empty flat, the parties started. He didn’t mind at first—but soon, waking to strangers sprawled across his home wore thin.
The neighbors complained. His mother arrived at dawn to find a half-dressed girl stumbling past her into the bathroom.
Naturally, she exploded. She threw everyone out and threatened to cut him off if he didn’t stop the drinking and raves.
For two weeks, the flat was silent. Then friends begged to celebrate a birthday—quiet, they promised, but the drinks flowed freely.
William woke the next morning not alone. Beside him lay a girl, tangled in blankets, face turned away, her auburn hair fanned across the pillow. The only redhead in their group was Emily Whitaker.
Carefully, he slid out of bed. He remembered nothing—but if anything had happened, he doubted he’d have bothered to put his shorts back on.
He checked the flat—just the two of them. He showered, brewed coffee. The smell woke Emily. She shuffled in wearing his shirt, mumbling drowsy nonsense, clinging to him. He pulled away.
“What? You said you loved me last night,” she pouted. “Give me that.” She reached for his mug.
“Don’t be daft,” he muttered, uneasy. “Nothing happened. I’m not suicidal—if James finds out, he’ll flatten me.”
“We broke up. Didn’t you know? Why d’you think I got so plastered? He’s shagging Lily from fifth year, the prick.”
After shooing a sniffling Emily to the shower, he cleared the bottles, washed up, and aired the flat. His mother might drop by unannounced.
They missed their lectures. Emily begged to skip and go to the cinema—but William refused. When friends asked where she was, he shrugged. “I thought she left with the rest of you?”
She didn’t speak to him for two weeks. Then she cornered him—delayed, she said. His stomach dropped.
“I’m pregnant. Stop playing dumb.”
“How is that my problem?” he choked out.
“You were there. Or don’t you remember?” She burst into tears. “I’ve got Rh-negative blood. If I terminate, I might never have kids after.”
“Couldn’t it be James’?” he blurted desperately.
“We used protection. That night—I was too drunk. You should’ve been careful. What do I do?”
William, trapped, offered marriage. Anything to stop her crying. She smacked a kiss on his cheek. The next day, she moved in from student housing.
His mother wailed she’d seen it coming. Oddly, her husband took William’s side. A decent bloke, surprisingly. They married after summer exams—which he nearly failed.
Emily gave birth that December—a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl. William stared, feeling nothing. His mother still worked, couldn’t babysit. Emily refused to go to her parents, so she took a leave of absence.
After lectures, William rushed home. Exhausted, Emily shoved the baby into his arms the moment he stepped inside. He’d sit with textbooks and a wailing infant, drag himself to class sleepless. They fought constantly—once, Emily stormed back to the student dorms.
“Sometimes I think you don’t want me or the baby. Did you marry me for the flat?” he finally asked. “What if she’s James’? She was due near Christmas.”
“Don’t believe me? Get a paternity test,” she snapped coldly—then erupted.
A week of silence. They coexisted, barely speaking. Finally, he cracked first. Things settled—but the doubt lingered.
One day, he returned to find unfamiliar shoes in the hall. *Girls visiting Emily*, he thought—until he overheard:
“Lucky you—central London flat, a husband. What if William finds out?”
“He won’t. Unless you tell him. You won’t, right?” Emily’s voice was steel.
William burst into the kitchen. “So you *did* lie. You weren’t at the dorms—you were with James!”
Emily flinched. Three pairs of eyes locked onto him. He fled, straight to James’ dorm. The bloke was drinking with mates. William swung—but James, a rugby player, dodged and knocked him flat.
“Maybe we planned it,” James sneered.
William lunged again—friends held him back. At home, he told Emily to leave.
“I’m not going. I’m your wife, on the lease. Polly’s legally yours. Sell the flat, and I won’t sue for child support. Deal?”
He remembered his father in prison—and agreed. That’s how he ended up in a council flat, sharing with a forty-five-year-old warehouse stocker whose hefty girlfriend brought groceries—enough to share.
Six months later, the bloke cornered him.
“You’re smart. Why crowd each other? Swap—you take Lucy’s one-bedder out in the suburbs. Not ideal, but better than this.”
Far from the city, but his own space—fresh air, woods nearby. William took it. After graduation, his stepfather got him a proper job. Life stabilized. His mother offered to buy furniture—he refused. No more handouts. Now he saved for a car.
***
The sun set, the air turned crisp. May wasn’t summer yet. His legs ached. On a playground bench, a hunched figure caught his eye. He’d nearly reached his building—but something nagged at him. He crossed to the bench. Not a teen—a young woman, tear-streaked face lifting to his.
“Something wrong?”
“What’s it to you?” she snapped.
He sat. She tensed.
“Don’t worry. It’s getting dark—cold, unsafe. Could I live with myself if IHe reached for her hand, realizing that sometimes the longest roads lead us exactly where we’re meant to be.
