The Cost of Happiness
Dennis lay on the sofa, eyes half-closed, listening to the muffled sounds of the house and the world beyond. Through the double-glazed windows, the distant honks of car horns and the wail of police or ambulance sirens bled into the quiet. Next door, an argument simmered; somewhere, a phone rang; a door slammed shut.
He used to love lying like this, piecing together the lives around him—which flat had the telly on, which one held shouting matches, which floor the lift would stop on.
“Daydreaming again? Did you finish your homework?”
Dennis could’ve sworn he heard it—his mum’s voice, faint but unmistakable. He flinched, eyes flying open. The room was empty, the hallway door ajar. If his mum had stepped out of the darkness just then, he wouldn’t have been shocked. He’d have wept. But she’d never walk through that door again. She’d died a week ago. That voice? Just phantom pain.
He sat up, feet sinking into the soft carpet. “I’ll lose my mind if I stay here,” he thought. “Should’ve booked a return ticket straight after the funeral—two days at most.” He dug his elbows into his knees, clutching his head, swaying slightly.
The sudden ring of his phone jolted him, elbow slipping, head lurching forward. He grabbed it without looking, his gaze landing on a note on the table: “Son, my darling boy—”
“Dennis, it’s Auntie Maggie. How are you holding up? Must be hard, alone there. Why don’t you come stay with me?”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, folding the letter and stuffing it into a drawer.
He couldn’t stay here. The voices were proof. Scrolling through his contacts, he landed on an old university mate. “Mike. That’s who I need.”
“Mike, mate!” Dennis blurted when the call connected.
“Who—?”
“Don’t recognise me? Didn’t take you for the forgetful type.”
“Hold on. Dennis?! You’re back? Where are you?” Mike’s voice boomed with sudden delight.
“Back, and clearly not missed. Charming.”
“Don’t be daft. Just surprised. You at your mum’s?”
“Yeah.” The shift in tone told Mike everything.
“Your mum…?”
“Gone. Buried her a week ago.”
Mike exhaled. “Christ. Saw her six months back—skin and bones. Didn’t even recognise her at first. How long you in town?”
“Three days.”
“Want me to come over? Better yet—come to ours. You’ll go spare alone there.”
“Ours?”
“Yeah, I’m married. To Alice. Remember her? She’s here, says hi and insists you come. Now. Perfect timing—just in time for lunch. Oh, new address—got a mortgage with the wife.”
“Go on,” Dennis said flatly.
Married. Alice had fancied Mike since first year, though he’d bounced between Sarah and Jules until Dennis set him straight. He packed quickly, hailed a cab, and stopped off at a shop—whisky for him and Mike, wine for Alice, chocolates, cold cuts.
Skipping the lift, he took the stairs. Good to move after days inside. On the third floor, a whimper—a child? A pup?—caught his ear. He paused.
“Oi, who’s there?” he asked, pressing his ear to the door.
Silence. Then, a small voice: “I’m not crying. I’m singing.”
“Singing by the door?”
“Waiting for Mum.”
“She left you alone?”
“She’s at Nan’s hospital. I’m poorly. Locked in.”
“How old are you?”
“Five. Who’re you?”
“Dennis. Heard your song. What’s your name?”
“Tommy. Wanna hear my poem about Father Christmas?”
Dennis smiled. “Go on.”
The kid recited it flawlessly. Dennis had known one just like it, long forgotten.
“Poems earn presents. How do I get it to you, though? You’re locked in. Tell you what—I’ll pop up to my mate’s, then come back. Deal?”
“You Father Christmas?”
“Nah. Wait here.”
Mike answered the door with a bear hug.
“Look who’s back! Gone quiet for years, then this?”
“Let the man breathe,” came Alice’s voice.
She stood in the doorway—older, prettier.
“Still unpacking,” Mike said, ushering him in. “Bit of a fixer-upper.”
Dennis whistled. “You’re joking. This is mint.”
“Mortgage from hell, but ours. Planning a sprog soon.” Mike beamed like a polished teapot.
“Food’s ready,” Alice announced.
They ate, drank, caught up.
“You married? Kids?” Alice asked.
Then it hit him—the boy.
“Listen, this’ll sound mad, but can I nick some sweets and satsumas? Kid downstairs recited a poem—promised him a treat. Tough little lad, locked in alone.”
Alice packed a bag—chocolates, biscuits, fruit.
Back on the third floor, the flat was silent now. The door clicked open, and Dennis froze. A woman—familiar but unplaceable. She recognised him too.
“Dennis…?”
A small figure darted to her side—Tommy, just as he’d pictured: bright-eyed, sweet.
“Promised you a present. Sorry, no toys—just these.” He handed over the sweets. The boy studied him intently.
“Can I come in?” Dennis asked the woman.
“Why?”
“Catch up? Been years. He yours? Sharp kid.”
“Come in,” she said flatly.
His mind raced for her name—Annie? Lucy?
“You just wandering about like that?” she asked. (Claire? Emma?)
Then it clicked: *Helen.*
“Wasn’t looking for you. Mike lives upstairs—Mike and Alice. Know them?”
She shrugged.
“Where’s Tommy’s dad?”
“Shouldn’t you get back to your friends?”
“Right. Good seeing you.”
As he climbed the stairs, his mind reeled. *Mike buys a flat in her building. Her son cries out just as I pass. We’d never have met otherwise. She’s different now.*
Final year, New Year’s Eve—Helen had been there, watching him all night. They’d drunk, danced. She’d asked him to walk her home. He barely remembered the trip, or if they’d talked. But he’d gone up to her flat. Cosy. Warm. Her waking him—*”Mum’ll be back soon.”*
At uni, he’d waved, pretending nothing happened. Twice, she’d tried to talk. He’d bolted.
*Wait.* His stomach lurched. He stopped at Mike’s door. *Tommy’s five. Five years ago—New Year’s. Six months later, I left for Scotland. So Tommy’s… No. Can’t be. She invited me—*
He rang the bell.
“Finally! We were about to send search parties,” Mike said.
“Sorry. I’ve got to go.” Dennis grabbed his jacket.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Feels like it. Sorry. I’ll come by tomorrow.”
“Want me to call a cab?”
“Nah. Need air.”
The walk cleared his head—too well. *What if…? No. She’s not like that. She fancied me. Was I that selfish? Used her and—*
Home, he face-planted the sofa and howled.
Next day, he returned with toys. Tommy grinned, tearing into them. Helen watched from the kitchen.
“Helen… When’s his birthday? Said it’s soon.”
“Why? You’ll be gone. September.”
“September. So he’s mine. Christ, I was an idiot. Helen, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I thought I had time—love, family, all that. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Who said he’s yours?”
“Then whose?”
She flushed. “I tried. You weren’t listening.”
“How was I to know? Helen, I’ll fix this. Think about it. Tommy needs a dad. Mine left when I was eight—just packed up. I begged. Mum let him go. Later, he tried coming back. Too late. I saw it in her eyes—we were done. I grew up, left. She stayed alone. That’s what kills me. I don’t want that for Tommy. Or you. I’m not just chasing a shag—I want us. More kids, even.”
“You’ll leave. He already asks about you.”
“One word, and I won’t. Well—I’d go back to quit, sort the flat.He looked at Helen, then at Tommy playing on the floor, and knew—no matter the cost—this was where he belonged.
