**Lucys Unexpected Happiness**
In that little town clinging to 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 a squelch in springs muddy roads, dozed lazily through summer heat, and sighed under autumns damp, drizzling rains. And in that slow, dragging current, Lucyeveryone called her that, never Ludmilafelt her life sinking.
Thirty years old, Lucy was trapped in the quicksand of her own body. She weighed twenty stone, and it wasnt just weightit was a fortress of flesh, exhaustion, and quiet despair built between her and the world. She suspected something was wrong insidesome flaw, an illness, a metabolism gone awrybut seeing a specialist in the city was unthinkable: too far, humiliatingly expensive, and likely pointless.
She worked as a nursery assistant at the local council-run daycare, “Bluebell.” Her days smelled of baby powder, overcooked porridge, and perpetually damp floors. Her large, impossibly gentle hands could soothe a crying toddler, tuck in a dozen cots with ease, and wipe up spills without making a child feel guilty. The kids adored her, drawn to her soft warmth. But their quiet admiration was poor payment for the loneliness waiting beyond the daycare gates.
Lucy lived in an old, eight-flat prefab, a relic from some long-gone era. The building creaked at night, groaned under strong winds, and seemed held together by dust and habit. Two years ago, her mothera quiet, worn-down woman whod buried all her dreams in those very wallshad passed away. Her father was just a blur, vanished long ago, leaving behind only a dusty photograph and a hollow absence.
Her life was harsh. Rusty pipes spat out frigid water, the shared outdoor loo was an icebox in winter, and summers turned the flat into a sweltering trap. But the worst tyrant was the stove. Each winter, it devoured two full lorry-loads of firewood, gnawing at her meagre wages. Some evenings, Lucy would stare into the flames behind the cast-iron door, feeling as though it werent just wood burningbut her years, her strength, her future, all crumbling to ash.
Then, one evening, as twilight seeped into her flat with its usual grey melancholy, something unexpected happened. Not a grand miracle, but a quiet, shuffling onelike the knock at her door from Margaret, the hospital caretaker from next door.
Margarets face was a roadmap of worries, but clutched in her hand were two crisp banknotes.
“Lucy, love, take this. Forty quid. Couldnt manage it sooner, Im sorry,” she muttered, pressing the money into Lucys palm.
Lucy blinked at it. Shed written off the debt years ago.
“Margaret, really, you didnt have to”
“Course I did!” Margaret cut in fiercely. “Ive got money now! Listen”
Lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret, Margaret spun a wild tale. Lads from Pakistan had turned up in town, offering quick cash£1,500for a sham marriage. Citizenship, they needed it fast.
“Had mine done yesterday,” Margaret whispered. “My lad, Rashid, hes at mine nowfor appearances, he says. My girl, Sarah, shes doing it too. Need a new coat for winter, dont she? Why not you? Look, lovewhens the last time a man looked your way?”
The words werent cruel, just brutally honest. Lucys chest ached, but she only hesitated a second. Margaret was right. No one was queuing up to marry her. Her world was the daycare, the shops, and this flat with its ravenous stove. But £1,500? That could buy firewood, new wallpaper to brighten the peeling walls
“Alright,” she said softly. “Ill do it.”
The next day, Margaret brought the “candidate.” Lucy opened the door and gasped, instinctively stepping back to hide her bulk. Before her stood a boy. Tall, slender, his face untouched by hardship, with dark, sorrowful eyes.
“Good Lord, hes just a kid!” she blurted.
He straightened.
“Im twenty-two,” he said clearly, his accent barely a whisper.
“See?” Margaret nudged. “Mines fifteen years youngeryours is only eight. Prime of his life!”
At the registry office, they hit a snag. The clerk, sharp-eyed in a stiff suit, declared a mandatory one-month wait”To be sure,” she added pointedly.
The men leftbusiness done, work calling. But before he left, Rahman (that was his name) asked for Lucys number.
“Lonely in a strange place,” he explained, and in his eyes, Lucy saw something familiarlostness.
He called. Every evening. At first, awkward and brief. Then longer. Rahman was a storytellerabout his mountains, his mother, why hed come to England. He asked about her life, the children, and to her surprise, she told himnot complaining, just sharing. She caught herself laughing, girlish and bright, forgetting her weight and age. By months end, they knew each other better than some couples did after years.
When Rahman returned, Lucy dressed in her one silver dresstoo tight, but the best she had. The ceremony was brisk, impersonalexcept for the way Rahmans hand trembled when he slid the ring onto her finger.
Afterwards, he walked her home. Inside, he solemnly handed her the promised money. Then, from his pocket, a velvet boxinside, a delicate gold chain.
“A gift,” he murmured. “Wanted a ring, but didnt know your size. I dont want to leave. I want you to really be my wife.”
Lucy froze.
“All month, I heard your soul in your voice,” he said, his eyes burning. “Youre kindlike my mother was. She was my fathers second wife, and he loved her deeply. Ive fallen for you, Lucy. Let me stay. With you.”
It wasnt a proposal of convenience. It was love.
Rahman left the next day, but now it was just waiting. He worked in London, returning every weekend. When Lucy discovered she was pregnant, he sold his share in the business, bought a second-hand transit van, and came back for good. He drove locals to the nearest town, his honesty making him popular.
Then came their son. Then another. Two dark-eyed, laughing boys with their fathers fire and their mothers gentleness. Their home filled with noise, warmth, the scents of family.
Rahman didnt drink, didnt smokehis faith forbade itand he worked tirelessly. The way he looked at Lucy made the neighbours seethe. The eight-year gap between them vanished in that love.
But the real miracle was Lucy herself. She bloomed. The weight melted away, as if it had been a shell she no longer needed. She didnt dietlife, joy, movement did the work. Her eyes sparkled; her step grew confident.
Sometimes, watching her boys play, feeling Rahmans adoring gaze, shed think of that strange evening, the £40, Margarets knockand the stranger with sad eyes whod given her not a sham marriage, but a real life. A true one.
