I cant seem to find true happiness. Im nearly forty now, and still alone. Not for lack of blessingsintelligence, looks, a successful career, and a generous salaryall in my favour. Yet, not a trace of that elusive contentment everyone whispers about.
My parents, Margaret and Philip Turner, worry endlessly for me. Their support is mostly emotional, of course; as for money, Im in a position to help them, though they never accept it.
Stay with us, love, Mum would always say. This house has plenty of room! Save your money for when happiness finds you. Dad would nod in agreement, a soft smile on his face.
Every evening after a long day at the office, Id come home exhausted, only to hear Mums sighs as she greeted me at the door.
No one to fuss over you but us, you poor thing, shed lament.
One day, when were gone, itll be awfully hard for you on your own. You really should seek happiness, dear, Dad would add gently.
And so the three of us would settle in front of the television, repeating the same pattern, year after year, day after day. The search for happiness, it seemed, took place in our living room, in front of the telly. The routine became so dull, Id find myself stifling yawns.
Dads dire musings about the future always felt strange to me. After all, they had me quite youngboth only nineteenand they were still full of life. Talking about when were gone felt wildly premature.
In my university days, I once dated a man named Andrew Parker. Andrew was large, a bit bumbling, but endearing in his own way. He seemed to cause a minor disaster wherever he wentknocking things over, tripping, dropping plates.
Mum would tease him, calling him Andy the Smasher or our walking catastrophe. Dad would mockingly shuffle about, mimicking Andrews awkward gait as he tried to catch imaginary falling objects.
No, darling, hes just hopeless, Dad would murmur softly. Everything he touches falls to bits! Hes not your happiness. Not the one for you.
And, as water shapes stone, after a while I began to see Andrew as a bit of a failure.
Yet, my parents were wrong. Andrew finished uni, opened a successful law practice, and married someone who found his clumsiness utterly charming. He and his new family live in a house in the countryside now, no longer confined to the clattering city flat.
Rebeccas happiness is still out there, somewhere, my parents would reassure themselvesand me.
It has to be said, though, I do love my family. Were close-knit, genuinely fond of each other. Only a few months ago, we all took a holiday together to Spain. We now spend many an evening reminiscing, poring over holiday snapssunbathing, laughing, the drinks we sipped by the pool. It was wonderful.
It was there that I met a man named Simon, visiting from Wales. I found him intriguing; he taught me how to spot constellations along the night shoreline. Yet, upon hearing of his existence, my parents fell into their usual routine.
Well, would you believe ita Simon romancing our Rebecca, all the way from Wales! Mum quipped with a laugh.
Dad stuffed a cushion under his shirt and waddled around the hotel room, making some joke about Simons size.
It stung. Simon wasnt fat, just a big bloke, kind-hearted and clever. In defiance of my parents jibes, I gave him my number. Back in London, when Mum realised we were still in touch, she sniffed disapprovingly.
Holiday flings are just terribly cheap, darling. They never end well, she declared, her voice clipped.
Never mind that neither I nor Simon had families back home to complicate things. The simple fact it was a holiday romance put an end to it in their minds. Find your own happiness, lovey. Well help in any way! Youre our darling girl, Dad would say, squeezing my hand.
That summer, the three of us escaped to our little cottage near the Cotswolds. Idyllic days, truly: river walks, cream tea under the apple trees, chargrilled sausages near the gazebo. Everything homegrown, everything fresh. Sometimes, the neighbours would drop by. One weekend, their son David visited with a little boy, Oliver, not more than five. Both had the same fair hair, blue eyes, freckles, and rather sticky-out ears.
We later learned Davids wife had left him for a businessman. The boy wasnt welcome in the new mans life, looking far too much like David. And so, David was left to raise Ollie on his own.
I was immediately drawn to both of them. There was something deeply genuine, subtly vulnerable about the pair. There was a spark between David and me, too, and even little Oliver seemed to take to me.
Of course, my mother couldnt help herself. Davids eaten all the carrots except oneperhaps his family invited him here just to meet you! Why would you want a man with baggage? Dad was quick to join in, Hes a failurewhat good man is left by his wife, and with such a young child?
For the first time, I spoke up.
Dad, sometimes you can tell a mans good because a woman trusts him enough to leave a child with him. She knows he wont go off the rails. She knows hell be a good parent.
But Dad shook his head. No, Becky, this isnt your happiness. Find your own. We want grandchildren to call our own, not someone elses. We want to hold little hands and hear tiny footsteps in the house
My parents withdrew after that. The neighbourly chats ended, their opinion of Davids family made plain and hurtful. Evenings grew quieter; the joyful gatherings under the apple tree were replaced with mournful silence. Summer passed in a state of subdued melancholy.
Still, Id grown fond of David and Oliverfor once, it felt like true affection, the sort that sprouts unexpectedly but grips you tight. I loved my parents as well; the thought of causing them pain lingered like a knot in my stomach. I felt so guilty for loving the wrong person, for failing to fit into their visions of my future. In the end, we left the cottage for our flat in Londonjust the three of us.
Autumn crept in, chilly and grey. My parents never uttered a word about Den or Olivernot a joke, nor even a passing comment.
Then, one rainy day, I saw a tiny ginger kitten huddled beneath a car tyre, soaking, lost, and alone in the world. The image stopped me in my tracks, reminded me sharply of Oliversmall, vulnerable, without a mother. I couldnt bear to see him left there, a moment away from disaster.
On impulse, I scooped the shivering bundle into my coat and carried him home. His fur was drenched, but all I cared about was warming him up.
I put him on a towel, poured some milk in a saucer, and sat on the kitchen floor watching him slurp eagerly. His little pink tongue darted in and out, moving so fast it made me smile.
Poor thing, you mustve been starving, I thought.
Dad wandered in with his paper, Mum trailing behind. They both watched the kitten coolly, confusion and annoyance clear in their faces.
What are we meant to do with it, then? Mum finally snapped.
The kitten yawned, then found a spot on the kitchen tiles and made a little puddle. Before I could even grab a napkin, Mum shrieked,
Get that little monster out immediately! Hell ruin the whole placescratch the furniture, rip the wallpaper! Philip, say something! This house isnt meant for strays!
Well stink of cats, and no respectable person will visit, Dad added with a huff.
But hes tiny! We can get a scratching post, train him for the litter traylook at him, how sweet he is! I pleaded.
But Mum was resolute.
No, Rebecca! Not in this house!
Dad shook his paper at me. A shelter will take himif not, threaten them with the local paper!
Quietly, I gathered the kitten and stepped outside, door closed firmly behind me.
In that moment, the ache inside me was overwhelming. How had I reached forty with nothing to call my own? No children, no husband, not even my own little corner of the world. At my age, I wasnt allowed even the simple joy of keeping a kitten. I realised then that I needed a placehowever modestthat was mine.
Instead of heading to an animal shelter, I went straight to the first estate agency I found. It didnt take long; they quickly found a flat with landlords happy to accept pets.
For the first time ever, I had my own space. The first thing I bought was a complete set of kitten supplies. The vet, after a quick check, told me she was a little female, about two months old. I named her Pippin, for her cheerful spirit and bright eyes.
Suddenly, I felt a touch happiernot wildly, but enough. Every time I looked at Pippin, I thought of little Oliver and his dad.
One day, my phone rang. I didnt expect it at all, given how thoroughly Mum and Dad had fallen out with the cottage neighbours. It was David.
Hi, how are you? he began, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Ollie wants a word with you!
Rebecca! We miss you. Will you visit us? Dad and I are waiting! piped up the little voice.
Id love to come, but can I bring my kitten? PippinI hesitated.
David laughed through the receiver. Bring a whole circus if you want! Well come and get youjust tell us where you are.
And that, somehow, is how I found my happiness. Against all odds, I am happy with David, Oliver, and Pippin. Soon Oliver will even have a brother or sister. What does it matter which?
I havent forgotten my parentsI still love them deeply. I ring Mum and Dad often, reassuring them that things are well, that I have finally found my own happiness.
It isnt the kind Mum and Dad imagined for me, but it is mine.
Maybe, one day, theyll come to understand, to accept this version of happiness. Maybe then, instead of calling me home in exasperation, theyll have the joy of holding tiny hands and listening to the soft patter of little feet through their own home.
