The Accidental Happiness of Rahmat
In that little town perched on the edge of the map, like a forgotten speck of dust, time didnt move by clocks but by seasons. It froze in bitter winters, thawed with the squelch of spring mud, drowsed in summer heat, and wept with chilly autumn rains. In this slow, syrupy flow, Lucys life seemed to drown.
Lucy was thirty, and her existence felt hopelessly trapped in the mire of her own body. She weighed nearly nineteen stone, and it wasnt just weightit was a fortress of flesh, exhaustion, and quiet despair. She suspected something inside her was brokena flaw, an illness, a metabolism gone wrongbut seeing a specialist in the city was unthinkable: too far, too humiliatingly expensive, and, she feared, useless.
She worked as a nursery assistant at the council-run Buttercup Daycare. Her days smelled of baby powder, overcooked porridge, and perpetually damp floors. Her large, gentle hands could comfort a sobbing toddler, tuck in a dozen cots, or wipe up a puddle without making a child feel ashamed. The children adored her, drawn to her softness and quiet warmth. But the admiration of three-year-olds was poor compensation for the loneliness that waited beyond the daycare gates.
Lucy lived in an old, eight-flat tenement left over from some long-gone era. The building creaked at night, groaned in strong winds, and seemed to cling to life by a thread. Two years ago, her mothera quiet, worn-out woman who had buried all her dreams within those very wallshad passed away. Lucy had no memory of her father; hed vanished long ago, leaving behind only a dusty absence and an old photograph.
Her life was harsh. The icy trickle of rusty water from the tap, the outdoor toilet like a frozen cave in winter, the stifling summer heat in her tiny flat. But the true tyrant was the stove. Each winter, it devoured two lorry-loads of firewood, draining her meagre wages dry. Long evenings were spent staring into the flames behind the iron door, as if the stove burned not just logs but her years, her strength, her futureall turning to cold ash.
Then, one evening, as twilight seeped into her flat like grey sorrow, a miracle happened. Not grand or dramatic, but quiet and shuffling, like the slippers of her neighbour, Margaret, who suddenly knocked on her door.
Margaret, a cleaner at the local hospital with a face etched by lifes worries, held out two crisp banknotes.
“Lucy, love, Im so sorry. Here. Two hundred quid. They were burning a hole in me pocket, honest.”
Lucy blinked at the money, a debt shed long written off.
“Margaret, you didnt have to”
“I did!” Margaret insisted. “Im flush now! Listen…”
Lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret, Margaret spun an unbelievable tale. How a group of lads from abroad had come to their town. How one of them, spotting her sweeping the street, had offered her a strange, frightening dealfifteen hundred quid.
“They need citizenship, see? So they go round places like ours, looking for women to marryon paper, like. Yesterday, they married me off to one of em. Dont ask how they sorted the paperwork, probably greased a few palms. My bloke, Rashid, hes at mine now, for appearances, he says. My daughter, Stacey, she agreed tooneeds a new coat for winter. What about you? This is a chance, aint it? You need the money, dont you? And whos gonna marry you proper?”
The last words werent cruel, just brutally honest. Lucy felt the familiar sting, but she only hesitated a second. Margaret was right. Real marriage wasnt in her future. No suitors had come, none would. Her world was the daycare, the shops, and this room with its greedy stove. Fifteen hundred quid meant firewood, new wallpaper to brighten the peeling wallsa reprieve from the gloom.
“Alright,” she whispered. “Ill do it.”
The next day, Margaret brought the “candidate.” Lucy gasped and instinctively stepped back, trying to hide her bulk. Before her stood a young mantall, slender, with a face untouched by hardship, and dark, sorrowful eyes.
“Good Lord, hes just a boy!” she blurted.
The lad straightened.
“Im twenty-two,” he said clearly, almost accentless, save for a soft, musical lilt.
“See?” Margaret chimed in. “Mines fifteen years younger! Yours is only eight. Prime of his life!”
At the registry office, they were told to wait a month. “To think it over,” the clerk said pointedly.
The lads leftthey had work elsewhere. But before going, Rahmatthat was his nameasked for Lucys number.
“Its lonely in a strange place,” he explained, and in his eyes, she saw a reflection of her own loneliness.
He called. Every evening. At first, the conversations were short, awkward. Then they grew longer. Rahmat was a wonderful talker. He spoke of his mountains, a sun unlike any she knew, his motherwho he adoredand why hed come to England: to help his family. He asked about her life, her work with children, and to her surprise, Lucy found herself sharingnot complaining, but telling stories. Funny moments at the daycare, her flat, the scent of spring soil. She caught herself laughinggirlish, carefreeforgetting her weight, her age. In a month, they learned more about each other than some couples do in years.
When Rahmat returned, Lucy put on her only nice dresssilver, straining at the seamsand felt not fear, but a strange flutter. His friends stood as witnesses, serious young men like him. The ceremony was brisk, bureaucratic. For Lucy, it was a burst of light: the glint of rings, official words, the surreal sense of stepping into another life.
Afterwards, Rahmat walked her home. Inside, he solemnly handed her the promised moneythe weight of her choice heavy in her palm. Then, from his pocket, he drew a small velvet box. Inside lay a delicate gold chain.
“A gift,” he said softly. “I wanted a ring, but I didnt know your size. I… I dont want to leave. I want you to be my wifefor real.”
Lucy stood frozen.
“All month, Ive heard your soul through the phone,” he continued, his eyes earnest. “Its kind, purelike my mothers. She was my fathers second wife, and he loved her deeply. Ive fallen for you, Lucy. Truly. Let me stay. With you.”
This wasnt a plea for a sham marriage. It was a proposal. And in his honest, sorrowful eyes, she saw not pity, but something shed stopped dreaming ofrespect, gratitude, and the first sparks of love.
Rahmat left the next day, but now it was an absence with promise. He worked in London, returning every weekend. When Lucy discovered she was pregnant, he sold his share in the business, bought a second-hand van, and came back for good. He started a delivery service, ferrying goods and people to the nearest town, his honesty and hard work soon making it thrive.
A son was born. Then, three years later, another. Two beautiful, dark-eyed boys with their fathers gaze and their mothers gentle smile. Their home filled with laughter, tiny footsteps, and the warmth of a real family.
Her husband didnt drink or smokehis faith forbade itand he looked at Lucy with such love the neighbours grew spitefully jealous. The eight-year gap between them vanished in that devotion.
But the greatest change was in Lucy herself. She bloomed. The pregnancies, the happiness, the need to care for others reshaped her body. The weight melted away, as if it had been an old shell she no longer needed.
Sometimes, watching her sons play on the rug, feeling Rahmats adoring gaze, she remembered that strange evening, the two hundred quid, Margarets knock. Lifes grandest miracles often arrive not with fanfare, but in the quietest momentsbringing a stranger with sad eyes who offers not a pretence, but a second chance. And sometimes, against all odds, that chance becomes everything.
