**The Path to Happiness**
Rodney walked home from work, though the distance was considerable. The evening was warm and still, the air undisturbed by wind. On nights like these, he never regretted not owning a car. He strolled, soaking in the warmth, glad that summer was near.
All his life, Rodney had lived with his parents in the heart of London, accustomed to the bustle and noise. But recently, he’d moved to the outskirts, to a quiet suburban estate. He’d return home and collapse into bed almost immediately, just to rise early and plunge back into the city’s ceaseless hum.
At night, the moon peered curiously through his window, unhindered by trees or neighbouring houses—he hadn’t yet bothered with thick curtains. His flat was on the twelfth floor of a new building, overlooking an empty field bordered by a distant line of trees. At first, he’d wake in the small hours, disoriented by the blue moonlight washing over his room. Then he’d remember where he was, calm himself, and drift back to sleep.
***
Just two years earlier, he hadn’t even known shared flats like his still existed—not like the old-fashioned ones where a dozen families crowded one kitchen, but still unpleasant, having to share space with a stranger.
Rodney had grown up in an ordinary household—a modest two-bedroom flat in the heart of the city, with high ceilings, spacious rooms, and a long, narrow hallway that led to a cramped kitchen. His mother worked as a nursery teacher, his father as a bus driver. They weren’t rich, but they could afford holidays by the sea.
Then everything collapsed in a single day. His father hadn’t run the red light—he’d waited, as he always did, before accelerating the bus. But suddenly, a woman darted across the road, dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her. His father slammed the brakes, but machines don’t stop on command. She was flung like a ball at impact and died before reaching the hospital.
Turns out, she’d been rushing to catch a train. Her son-in-law had promised to take her to their countryside home, but his plans changed. They’d argued, and furious, she’d bolted for the station, convinced she could beat the traffic. The train wouldn’t wait for her.
That same son-in-law later screamed in court that a drunk driver had killed his beloved mother-in-law, demanding the harshest sentence. Yes, the depot had thrown a farewell party for a retiring colleague the night before—there’d been drinking. But the morning medical check showed no signs his father had been impaired. He seldom drank at all. Yet somehow, his blood alcohol readings in the case file exceeded the limit.
To spare his coworkers trouble, his father admitted to having a drink at his wife’s friend’s birthday party. He took the fall alone. His mother wept; money grew tight. A nursery teacher’s wages weren’t much. Rodney announced he wouldn’t go to university—he’d get a job.
*”What, the army wasn’t enough? First your father, now you’re trying to get yourself killed too?”* his mother sobbed.
To calm her, he promised to study. Just before graduation, his father died in prison of a heart attack. Rodney kept his word—he enrolled. Two years later, his mother remarried and moved in with her new husband. Rodney stayed behind in their flat. She paid the bills, gave him an allowance—as long as he studied. She could afford it now. Her new husband wasn’t just a civil servant—he was someone important. Not that Rodney could ever recall his exact title.
When his student friends learned Rodney had a place to himself, parties erupted almost overnight. He was a generous host, letting them crash till morning.
At first, he enjoyed it. Then the endless noise, the strangers—girls and lads he’d never seen before—waking up in his home wore thin.
Neighbours complained. His mother arrived unannounced one dawn and was met by a naked girl strolling past her to the bathroom, utterly unbothered.
Naturally, she blew up. She threw everyone out, threatening to cut Rodney off unless the drinking and debauchery stopped.
For two weeks, silence reigned. Then his mates begged to use his place for a birthday bash. They were quieter—but the drinking was worse.
He woke up next to a naked girl, the duvet barely covering her waist. She lay on her stomach, face turned to the wall, fiery red hair splayed across the pillow. The only girl in their group with hair like that was Maisie Croft.
Rodney slipped out carefully, not waking her. He remembered nothing, but if something *had* happened, he doubted he’d have bothered with underwear after.
Walking through the flat, he found no one else. He showered, made coffee. The smell roused Maisie, who shuffled into the kitchen in his oversized shirt, murmuring nonsense, pressing close. He stepped back.
*”What’s wrong? Last night you said you loved me,”* she pouted, reaching for his mug. *”Give us a sip.”*
*”Don’t be daft,”* Rodney said uncertainly. *”Nothing happened. I’m not suicidal—if Ollie finds out, he’ll flatten me.”*
*”We broke up. Didn’t you know? Why d’you think I got so smashed? He’s shagging Lauren from fifth year, the prick.”*
After shooing a sniffling Maisie into the shower, he bagged empty bottles, washed up, and aired out the flat. His mother might drop by for inspection.
They missed lectures. Maisie wheedled him into skipping for the cinema, but he refused and went to class. When his mates asked where she was, he feigned ignorance—hadn’t she left with the rest last night?
For two weeks, Maisie ignored him. Then she cornered him: *”I’m late.”* Rodney tensed, pretending not to follow.
*”I’m pregnant, you idiot,”* she snapped.
*”How’s that my problem?”* His stomach dropped.
*”Oh, so it wasn’t you?”* She glared. Then her face crumpled. *”We used protection, but I was too pissed to care that night. You could’ve thought for both of us. What do we do?”* She buried her face in his chest, weeping as passersby stared.
Rodney swallowed hard. *”I won’t run. I’m not ready to be a dad, but if you want, we’ll get married. Just stop crying.”* She kissed his cheek. The next day, she moved in from student housing.
His mother shrieked she’d seen this coming. Unexpectedly, her husband backed Rodney—*”Decent bloke, that,”* Rodney thought. They married hastily after summer exams, which he nearly failed.
Maisie gave birth in early December—a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl. Rodney studied the baby and felt nothing. His mother still worked; she couldn’t babysit. Maisie refused to go to her parents, taking a study break instead.
After classes, Rodney rushed home to a weary Maisie thrusting the baby into his arms. He’d sit with textbooks and his daughter till dawn, then drag himself to lectures exhausted. They fought constantly—once almost coming to blows before Maisie fled to her mates’ dorm.
*”Sometimes I think you don’t want me *or* the baby. Did you marry me for the flat?”* he asked once. *”Is she even mine? Ollie’s maybe? You were due after New Year’s.”*
*”Don’t believe me? Get a test,”* Maisie shot back coolly—then exploded.
They didn’t speak for a week, coexisting in silence. Through gritted teeth, she’d order him to iron clothes or watch the baby. He cracked first. Things settled, but the bitterness lingered.
Once, returning from uni, he found unfamiliar shoes in the hall—Maisie’s friends, he assumed. Then he overheard:
*”Lucky you—flat in the city, a husband. What if Rodney finds out?”*
*”He won’t, unless you tell him. You won’t, will you?”* Maisie’s voice was sharp.
Rodney stormed into the kitchen. *”So you *did* lie. You weren’t at the dorm—you were with Ollie!”*
Maisie flinched. Three pairs of eyes fixed on him. He bolted to the dorm, where Ollie was drinking with friends. Rodney swung first; Ollie—stronger, a boxer—dodged and knocked him flat.
*”Did you two plan this?”* Rodney spat blood.
*”Maybe,”* Ollie smirked.
Rodney lunged again, but friends held him back. At home, he told Maisie to leave.
*”I’m not going. I’m your *wife*—I’m on the lease. Polly’s legally *yours*. Here’s the deal: we sell the flat, split it, and I won’t sue for child support. Take it or leave it.”*
Rodney remembered his father’s fate—and agreed. That’s how heAnd so, years later, as Rodney watched his own children play by the riverbank—the son he’d taken in and the daughter who was truly his—he realized that happiness had found him after all, not in the way he’d expected, but in a life built from broken pieces carefully mended.
