The Accidental Happiness of Rahman
In that little town clinging to the edge of the map like a speck of dust forgotten by time, the hours didnt tick by but stretched with the seasons. Winter froze the days solid, spring thawed them into muddy puddles, summer drowsed in thick heat, and autumn wept with endless drizzle. And in that slow, syrupy current, Lucys life sank deeper, as if the world had left her behind.
Lucy was thirty, and her body felt like a fortress built against the worlda fortress of flesh, exhaustion, and quiet despair. She weighed eighteen stone, and every pound was a brick in the wall between her and everything else. She suspected something inside her was brokensome fault in her metabolism, some hidden illnessbut seeing a specialist in the city was unthinkable: too far, too humiliatingly expensive, and likely pointless.
She worked as a nursery assistant at the council-run Buttercup Daycare. Her days smelled of talcum powder, overcooked porridge, and perpetually damp floors. Her large, impossibly gentle hands could soothe a crying toddler, tuck in a dozen cots, or mop up a puddle without making a child feel ashamed. The children adored her, drawn to her softness and calm. But their wide-eyed admiration was poor payment for the loneliness that waited beyond the daycare gates.
Lucy lived in an old eight-flat terrace, a relic of some long-gone era. The house creaked at night, groaned in strong winds, and seemed to hold its breath in fear of collapse. Two years ago, her mothera quiet, worn-out woman whod buried all her dreams in those same wallshad passed away. Her father was just a blur, a man whod vanished long ago, leaving behind only dust and a faded photograph.
Her life was harsh. Rusty pipes spat out icy water, the outdoor toilet was a frozen cave in winter, and summers sweltered in the cramped rooms. But the real tyrant was the stove. Every winter, it devoured two lorry-loads of firewood, gulping down the last of her meagre wages. Lucy spent evenings staring into the flames behind the iron door, watching as the heat ate not just logs but her years, her strength, her futureall turning to cold ash.
Then, one evening, as dusk seeped into her room like grey sorrow, something miraculous happened. Not grand or dramatic, but quiet, scuffed at the edgeslike the slippers of her neighbour, Margaret, who suddenly knocked on her door.
Margaret, the hospital caretaker with a face carved by worry, held out two crisp banknotes.
“Lucy, love, Im sorry. Here. Two hundred quid. Didnt mean to leave you waiting,” she mumbled, pressing the money into Lucys hand.
Lucy blinked at the casha debt shed written off years ago.
“Honestly, Maggie, you didnt have to”
“I did!” Margaret cut in, eyes bright. “Ive got money now. Listen”
Then, lowering her voice like she was sharing a state secret, Margaret told the strangest tale. How a group of Bangladeshi men had come to town. How one, spotting her sweeping the pavement, had offered a bizarre and frightening dealfifteen hundred pounds.
“They need citizenship, see. Fast. So they go round small towns like ours, looking for wives. Fake ones, just for papers. Yesterday, they married me off. Dont know how they sorted the registrybribes, probablybut it was quick. My Rahmans sitting in my house now for appearances. Once its dark, hell leave. My daughter, Emily, she said yes too. Needs a new coat for winter. What about you? Look, heres your chance. Need the money? Course you do. And whos gonna marry you proper?”
The last words werent cruel, just brutally honest. Lucy felt the familiar ache under her ribs and hesitated only a moment. Margaret was right. Real marriage wasnt coming. No suitors had appeared, none ever would. Her world was the daycare, the shop, and this room with its greedy stove. But heremoney. Fifteen hundred quid. Enough for firewood, maybe new wallpaper to chase away the gloom of peeling walls.
“Alright,” she whispered. “Ill do it.”
The next day, Margaret brought the “candidate.” Lucy opened the doorand gasped, stepping back instinctively, as if her bulk could hide. Before her stood a young man. Tall, slender, with a face untouched by hardship and dark eyes filled with sadness.
“Good Lord, hes just a boy!” Lucy blurted.
The young man straightened.
“Im twenty-two,” he said clearly, with only the faintest lilt of an accent.
“See?” Margaret fussed. “Mines fifteen years younger, but you two? Only eight years apart. Prime of his life!”
At the registry office, they hit a snag. The clerk in her sharp suit eyed them suspiciously and declared they must wait a month. “To think it over,” she added pointedly.
The Bangladeshis leftbusiness was done. But before going, Rahman asked for Lucys number.
“Its lonely in a strange place,” he explained, and in his eyes, Lucy saw something familiar: loss.
He called. Every evening. At first, the conversations were short, awkward. Then they grew longer. Rahman was a startlingly good listener. He spoke of his mountains, of a sun that burned differently there, of his motherdeeply lovedand how hed come to England to help his family. He asked about Lucys life, her work, and to her surprise, she spokenot complaining, but telling stories. Funny moments at the nursery. The way fresh earth smelled in spring. She caught herself laughinggirlish, freeforgetting her weight, her age. In a month, they knew each other better than some couples did in years.
When Rahman returned, Lucy wore her only silver dress, tight around her curves, and felt something oddnot fear, but excitement. The witnesses were his countrymen, serious young men in smart suits. The ceremony was brisk, bureaucratic. To Lucy, it was a flash: the gleam of rings, the weight of unreality.
Afterwards, Rahman walked her home. Inside, he solemnly handed her the envelope of promised cash. It felt heavythe weight of her choice, her desperation, her new role. Then he pulled out a small velvet box. Inside lay a delicate gold chain.
“A gift,” he said softly. “Wanted a ring, but didnt know your size. I I dont want to leave. I want you to really be my wife.”
Lucy froze.
“All month, I heard your soul on the phone,” he continued, eyes burning. “Its kind. Pure, like my mothers. She was my fathers second wife, and he loved her dearly. Ive fallen for you, Lucy. Truly. Let me stay. With you.”
This wasnt a request for a sham marriage. It was a proposal. And in his earnest, sorrowful eyes, Lucy saw not pity but something shed stopped dreaming ofrespect, gratitude, and the first flicker of love.
The next day, Rahman leftbut now it was just waiting. He worked in London with his friends but visited every weekend. When Lucy discovered she was pregnant, Rahman sold part of his share in their business, bought a second-hand van, and came back for good. He started a delivery service, ferrying goods and people to the nearest town, and his honesty soon made it thrive.
Then their son was born. Three years later, another. Two beautiful, tan-skinned boys with their fathers eyes and their mothers gentle smile. Their home filled with shouts, laughter, tiny footsteps, and the warm scent of family.
Her husband didnt drink, didnt smokehis faith forbade itand he worked tirelessly, looking at Lucy with such devotion the neighbours scowled. The eight-year gap between them vanished in that love.
But the real miracle was Lucy herself. She bloomed from within. The pregnancies, the happiness, the sudden purposeher body reshaped itself. The extra weight melted away, as if it had only ever been a shell, guarding something fragile until the right moment. She didnt diet; life itself became movement, joy, care. Her eyes sparkled. Her walk gained confidence.
Sometimes, watching her sons play on the rug as Rahman tended the fire, Lucy would catch his adoring gaze. Shed think of that strange evening, the two hundred quid, Margarets knockand how the greatest miracles arrive not in lightning strikes, but in quiet raps at the door, bringing strangers with sad eyes who turn out to be the start of everything real.
