The Accidental Happiness of Rahmat
In that forgotten little town perched on the edge of the map, like the last speck of dust no one bothered to wipe away, time didnt move by clocks but by seasons. It froze in bitter winters, thawed with the squelch of spring mud, drowsed under summer heat, and sighed with the drizzle of autumn rains. And in this slow, syrupy flow, Lucys life drowned.
Lucy was thirty, and her whole existence seemed hopelessly stuck in the quicksand of her own body. She weighed twenty stone, and it wasnt just weightit was a fortress, built between her and the world. A fortress of flesh, exhaustion, and quiet despair. She suspected the root of it was somewhere inside, some malfunction, an illness, a metabolic failure, but seeing a specialist in the city was unthinkabletoo far, humiliatingly expensive, and utterly pointless.
She worked as a nursery assistant at the local council-run daycare, “Bluebell Cottage.” Her days smelled of baby powder, overcooked porridge, and perpetually damp floors. Her large, impossibly kind hands could soothe a weeping toddler, tuck in a dozen cots, and mop up accidents without making a child feel ashamed. The children adored her, drawn to her warmth and gentle patience. But the quiet awe in a three-year-olds eyes was poor payment for the loneliness waiting beyond the daycare gates.
Lucy lived in an old, crumbling terrace house left over from some forgotten era. The place groaned at night, its beams creaking like tired bones, flinching at every strong wind. Two years ago, her mothera quiet, worn-out woman who had buried all her dreams inside those same peeling wallshad passed away. Lucy barely remembered her father; he had vanished long ago, leaving behind only dust and an old photograph.
Her world was harsh. Chilly water dribbling from rust-stained taps, an outhouse like an icebox in winter, and the suffocating summer heat trapped indoors. But the real tyrant was the fireplace. In winter, it devoured two lorry-loads of firewood, draining her meagre wages to ashes. She spent long evenings staring into the flames, feeling as though it wasnt just wood burning away but her years, her strength, her futureall turning to cold grey dust.
Then, one evening, as dusk seeped into her room with its usual melancholy, something miraculous happened. Not grand, not dramaticjust quiet, shuffling footsteps like the slippers of her neighbour, Gladys, who suddenly knocked on her door.
Gladys, the hospital cleaner with a face carved by years of worry, held out two crisp banknotes.
“Lucy, love, Im sorry it took so long. Here. Two hundred quid. Didnt mean to keep you waiting,” she muttered, pressing the money into Lucys hand.
Lucy stared at the cash, a debt shed long written off in her mind.
“Glad, reallyyou didnt have to bother.”
“I did!” Gladys snapped, eyes gleaming with urgency. “Im flush now. Listen”
Leaning in, as if sharing a state secret, she spun a wild tale. How a group of lads from Tajikistan had rolled into their town. How one of them, spotting her sweeping the street, offered her a strange, frightening dealfifteen hundred quid.
“They need citizenship, fast. So theyre trawling places like ours, looking for wives. Fake ones, for paperwork. Yesterday, I got married. No idea how they smooth it over at the registry, probably greasing palms, but its quick. My fella, Rahmathes at mine now, for appearances. Once its dark, hell go. My Sarah said yes toowants a new winter coat. What about you? Look, love, this is a chance. You need the money, dont you? And who else is going to marry you?”
The last words werent cruel, just brutally honest. Lucy felt the familiar sting under her ribs and hesitated for only a second. Gladys was right. A real marriage wasnt in her future. No suitors, no prospects. Her world was the daycare, the shop, and this room with its greedy fireplace. But fifteen hundred quid? That could buy firewood. New wallpaper to chase away the gloom of peeling walls.
“Alright,” she whispered. “Ill do it.”
The next day, Gladys brought the “candidate.” When Lucy opened the door, she gasped and instinctively stepped back, trying to hide her bulk. The man before her was a boytall, lean, with a face untouched by lifes roughness and dark, heartbreakingly sad eyes.
“Christ, hes just a kid!” Lucy blurted.
The boy straightened.
“Im twenty-two,” he said clearly, with only the faintest lilt to his voice.
“See?” Gladys chirped. “Mines fifteen years youngeryours is barely eight! Prime of his life!”
At the registry office, they hit a snag. The clerk in her stiff suit eyed them with suspicion and declared theyd have to wait a month. “To think it over,” she added pointedly.
The Tajiks leftbusiness was business. But before going, Rahmatthat was his nameasked for Lucys number.
“Its lonely in a strange place,” he said, and in his eyes, Lucy saw a reflection of her own loneliness.
He called. Every night. At first, the conversations were short, awkward. Then they grew longer. Rahmat was a storyteller. He spoke of his mountains, the sun theredifferent, fiercerof his mother, whom he adored, of coming to England to help his family. He asked about her life, her work with children, and to her surprise, Lucy talkednot complained, but shared. The funny moments at daycare, her house, the smell of spring soil. She caught herself laughing into the phonebright, girlish, forgetting her weight, her years. In that month, they learned more about each other than some couples did in decades.
When Rahmat returned, Lucy slipped into her only nice dresssilver, straining at the seamsand felt not fear but a strange flutter. His friends stood witness at the registry, solemn and sharp-eyed. The ceremony was brisk and bureaucratic. For Lucy, it was a flash of gold rings, formal words, surreal disbelief.
Afterwards, Rahmat walked her home. Inside, he handed her a thick envelopethe promised money. It felt heavy, weighted with her desperation. Then he pulled out a small velvet box. Inside was a delicate gold chain.
“A gift,” he murmured. “I wanted a ring, but didnt know your size. I… I dont want to leave. I want you to really be my wife.”
Lucy froze.
“Ive heard your soul over the phone this month,” he said, eyes burning. “Its kind. Pure, like my mothers was. She was my fathers second wife, and he loved her dearly. Ive fallen in love with you, Lucy. Let me stay. With you.”
This wasnt a request for a fake marriage. It was a proposal. And in his earnest, sorrowful eyes, Lucy saw not pity but something shed stopped dreaming ofrespect, gratitude, and the beginnings of tenderness.
The next day, Rahmat left, but now it wasnt goodbye. He worked in London with his countrymen but visited every weekend. When Lucy discovered she was pregnant, Rahmat sold his share of the business, bought a second-hand van, and came back for good. He started a delivery service, ferrying goods to the nearest town, and quickly earned a reputation for honesty and hard work.
Then their son was born. Three years later, another. Two beautiful, dark-eyed boys with their fathers gaze and their mothers gentle smiles. Their home filled with laughter, tiny footsteps, the warmth of a real family.
Her husband didnt drink, didnt smokehis faith forbade itand he looked at Lucy with such devotion the neighbours seethed with envy. The eight-year age gap melted away, invisible in the light of their love.
But the greatest miracle was Lucy herself. She bloomed. Pregnancy, happiness, the need to care for more than just herselfher body reshaped, shedding weight like an outgrown shell. She didnt diet; life moved her. Her eyes sparkled, her walk steadied.
Sometimes, standing by the fireplace (now tended by Rahmat), watching her sons play, shed catch her husbands adoring gaze and think of that strange evening, the two hundred quid, Gladys, and how the greatest miracles dont come with fanfarejust a knock at the door, bringing a stranger with sad eyes who gave her not a sham marriage, but a real life. A true one.
