**A Tricky Kind of Happiness**
On Friday, the head accountant arrived at work dressed to the nines, carrying a bottle of expensive wine, a cake, and a platter of posh deli meats.
“Ladies, don’t rush off after work,” she announced. “We’ll have a little sit-down to celebrate my birthday.”
At once, everyone swarmed her with hugs and congratulations. Emily joined in. She’d started at the company green as grass, taking the full brunt of every mistake, but she genuinely saw Mrs. Higgins as her mentor. The older woman pulled her into a hug and whispered,
“Only a bit longer, then I’m retiring. You, my dear, are my pick to take over. You’re disciplined, reliable—I know you’ll manage.”
Emily barely had time to thank her before the next colleague swooped in with well-wishes.
They wrapped up early, cleared a table in the accounting office, and draped it with a disposable tablecloth, loading it with whatever they’d scavenged from the fridge. The director and department heads joined, presenting Mrs. Higgins with roses and a gift. The room buzzed. Emily slipped out unnoticed.
“Where do you think you’re off to? We’ve only just sat down!” Her colleague and friend, Charlotte, caught her in the hallway.
“I have to go. Dad’s home alone.”
“Stay for half an hour—what’s the worst that could happen?”
“Don’t bother. He hates when I’m late—starts worrying, his blood pressure spikes. At his age, that’s risky.”
“What age? How old is he?”
“Seventy-one,” Emily sighed.
“That’s nothing! Plenty of men that age are out falling in love again.”
“Honestly, I need to go. Make my excuses.” She turned, but Charlotte grabbed her wrist.
“You’ve painted yourself into a corner. You’re young—no personal life. Is that normal? Doesn’t your dad want you to have a family? Grandkids?”
“What grandkids? I’m forty-two!”
“So? You wrote yourself off too soon. At this rate, you’ll—” Charlotte broke off, seeing Emily’s glare. “Who else will tell you the truth? Is he ill?”
“No, just getting older—terrified of dying alone.”
“I don’t get it, Em. Your mum revolved around him her whole life. And where’s she now? And now you—”
“Enough. It’s my life.” Emily wrenched free and hurried to her office to grab her coat.
Outside, spring was in the air—most of the snow had melted, buds ready to burst on the trees. On the way home, she stopped at the shop. The queue at the till was long, but she checked her watch. She’d left early—plenty of time.
At home, she made a show of clattering in the hall so her dad would hear. She unpacked the shopping, then peeked into the living room. He lounged on the sofa, eyes glued to the telly.
“Dad, I’m back. What’re you watching?”
The taut set of his jaw told her he was in one of his moods. When was he ever *not*?
“How are you feeling?” she pressed.
“Took your sweet time, didn’t you? Too busy gallivanting. Meanwhile, my blood pressure’s through the roof. I’ll drop dead alone, and you won’t even notice,” he grumbled, cutting her a look.
“Gallivanting? I popped to the shop!” She fetched the blood pressure monitor. “Here—let’s check.”
He didn’t budge.
“Don’t be difficult.”
With a huff, he extended his arm. She strapped on the cuff, pumped the bulb.
“You’re imagining things. It’s perfect.”
“You don’t know how to use that thing. *I* can feel it,” he muttered.
She knew he wasn’t young—had worked construction his whole life—but that didn’t excuse the all-day sofa residency.
“Should I call the doctor tomorrow?”
“What do they know? Pills, then out the door. Useless.”
Emily put the monitor away and changed. Over dinner prep, she conducted a silent rant:
*I’d like a break too. Staring at spreadsheets all day, eyes aching. Could be eating cake with colleagues right now. They’re offering me a promotion, and I bolted. What if Mrs. Higgins is offended?*
*I’m a grown woman. Sick of being monitored, nitpicked. You could at least nip to the corner shop. Charlotte’s right—I’ll crack first. No energy left…*
She cut herself off. Not fair—who knew how she’d act at his age?
Her mum had done everything: cleaning, cooking, hauling groceries. Dad’s philosophy? “Not a man’s job”—especially with two women in the house. Never mind that the second “woman” had been a child.
She didn’t recall her mum ever lounging. Always sewing, knitting… “Go play, love,” she’d say. “You’ll have enough work when you’re married.”
Then Emily brought home her fiancé, Daniel. Dad sized him up and declared, “No layabouts in my house.” Daniel barely stayed for tea. They rented a flat after the wedding, but her frequent visits to help Mum—whose blood pressure was *genuinely* high—sparked rows.
When Mum died of a stroke, Emily moved in with Dad. Daniel left. She’d tried rebelling, but Dad faked heart attacks, called ambulances. The paramedics scolded *her* for false alarms while he smirked.
Men had shown interest, but she never dared bring them home. So it went: no family, no children—just Dad’s tirades if she was five minutes late.
One day, Charlotte snapped. “I’ve had enough—we’re going to Cornwall. No arguments.”
“But Dad—”
“He’s fitter than you. Meal-prep, ask a neighbor to check in. Ten days won’t kill him.”
The night before the trip, she finally told him. Predictably, he howled about abandonment.
“Even maids get holidays,” she said flatly. “There’s food in the freezer. Mrs. Whittaker downstairs will check on you. And stop pretending—I know you sneak out when I’m gone.”
He gaped, stunned by her spine.
Cornwall worked magic. Sun-kissed and relaxed, she barely recognized herself. Then she spotted *him*—James, a university flame.
“We divorced. I live with Dad now,” she admitted when he asked.
“Sounds like you’re not thrilled about it.”
“His personality’s… challenging. Daniel couldn’t take it.”
“Well, I’m not Daniel.”
By the trip’s end, they were inseparable. “Let’s try,” James said. “But I’ll need to talk to your dad.”
Home again, Emily braced for wrath—only to find the flat spotless, silent. Panicked, she raced next door. There was Dad, climbing the stairs with Mrs. Whittaker, *carrying groceries*.
“Back so soon?” Mrs. Whittaker beamed. “We’ve just been to the shops.”
“How’d you get him out?” Emily blurted.
Mrs. Whittaker winked. “We’ve been walking in the park daily. Old folks suit old folks. My late husband was his mate, you know. Anyway, we’ve decided to move in together. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mind? I—”
“Good. You focus on your life now.”
Dad opened his mouth, but Mrs. Whittaker patted his hand, and he shut it.
Later, alone in the flat, Emily half-expected the old routine. Instead, she called James.
“Pack your things,” he said. “My place is bigger.”
“Already?”
“Why wait?”
Life flipped overnight. James’ daughter adored her; they discussed grandchildren. At work, Mrs. Higgins retired—Emily got the promotion.
Rushing home now meant dinner with a man who’d *peeled the potatoes*. They binged shows, talked for hours. For the first time, she was happy.
No hard feelings toward Dad. He’d been lonely too—trapped by his own temper. Losing a spouse was dreadful, but clinging to children out of fear? That just killed love twice over. You couldn’t smother them *or* turn them into carers. Balance—that was the trick.
