**One Step to Happiness**
Rosemary had been pretty since childhood—petite, fair-haired, with just the right figure and a face that turned heads. After university, she stayed in London to work. But her love life was a different story. She never lacked male attention, yet none ever asked for her hand. And now she was about to turn thirty.
At first, she joked there was no rush. But as time slipped by, she grew sad. Time, after all, had a way of playing tricks.
“Maybe someone cursed you? Think—did you ever cross someone’s path?” her mother’s friend had asked last New Year’s Eve.
“I’ve never wronged anyone,” Rosemary insisted.
“Then someone must’ve envied you terribly,” the woman declared.
Rosemary didn’t argue. Envy wasn’t unfamiliar—girls at school had resented her. Boys flocked to her, but she focused on studies, leaving love for later.
Her mother had raised her alone. They weren’t poor, but they weren’t extravagant either. Her mum knitted beautifully—delicate, cosy, stylish jumpers in every shade filled Rosemary’s wardrobe, and some were sold for extra income.
“Don’t put ideas in her head, Irene! She’s got plenty of suitors. No need to rush,” her mother would defend her.
“Suitors, yes. But where’s the husband? A decent lover, at least,” Irene would retort.
Rosemary decided then she wouldn’t spend New Year’s with her mum again. The talk was exhausting.
One evening, lost in thought, she stepped aside to let a woman with a pram pass.
“Rosemary!” the woman gasped, stopping abruptly. “Don’t you recognise me? It’s Tabitha—Tabitha Whitmore now!”
Rosemary forced a smile. “Tabitha. You live in London now?”
“Three years already! Imagine bumping into you like this. I heard you—”
“Yours?” Rosemary cut in, gesturing to the pram before Tabitha could pry.
“Oh yes! My little girl,” Tabitha beamed.
Peering under the canopy, Rosemary saw a sleeping angel—rosy-cheeked, with lashes brushing plump skin, wrapped in knitted lace. The scent of milk and warm wool drifted up.
“She’s lovely. Takes after her father?”
“Heavens, yes! When she was born—”
“Sorry, I’m in a rush. We’ll catch up later,” Rosemary lied, hurrying off.
Mood soured, she trudged home. *Tabitha—plain, forgettable Tabitha—married, settled, radiating joy. And here I am, alone. Where did my happiness go?*
At home, the decorated tree annoyed her. It only reminded her she’d ring in the New Year alone.
The kettle had just boiled when her phone rang. It was William.
“Home already, love? I’ll be over soon.”
She nearly lied, said she was out. The passion had long faded; all that remained was habit. He’d divorced years ago—not because of her—but still lived with his ex “for their daughter’s sake.”
She sighed, said she was home, and started dinner.
William arrived with a gift bag. “Almost didn’t make it before New Year’s. End-of-year reports, the office party, promised my daughter I’d take her ice-skating…”
Rosemary barely listened but brightened at the gift—red lingerie and a velvet box holding a gold heart pendant.
“Thank you!” She pecked his cheek.
Dinner was skipped. Later, as he dressed, she suddenly asked, “How old’s your daughter?”
He froze, trousers in hand, eyes rolling upward as if the answer were on the ceiling. One leg was already stuffed into his trousers; the other, clad in a mismatched sock, looked pallid and oddly hairless—like plucked chicken skin. She looked away, disgusted. *Why did I ever fancy him?*
“Ten, I think. Yes, ten.”
At ten, Rosemary had been all knees and plaits, her father long gone. She pitied William’s daughter.
After he left, she balled up the bedsheets and shoved them in the washer. *No more. Let him be with his family.*
The next day, shopping for her mum, she mindlessly stepped onto a crossing. Horns blared; drivers swerved. She barely noticed, tears streaking her cheeks.
“You’re crying. What’s wrong? Lost someone?” A man blocked her path. “Only grief makes one risk their life like that.”
Bewildered, she let him steer her into a café.
“Cold hands,” he noted, ordering coffees. “Now, why the tears? Husband trouble?”
Wine appeared. She drank, warmth spreading, and found herself spilling everything—Tabitha, William, her mum’s knitting, the loneliness.
The man—Henry—listened intently. “You’re a catch. Pretty, skilled, homely. Most beauties only know clubs and shopping. Ditch that fellow.”
“I have. He’s got a child.”
“Good. Forget the past. So have I.” He checked his watch. “I’ll walk you home. Next time, I’ll bring flowers, and we’ll start fresh.”
They rang in the New Year together—and as they say, how you spend it sets the tone. By April, they married.
Months later, in the park, Rosemary spotted William with his stout wife and equally stout daughter. She turned away, searching for Henry. He returned with ice creams, kissing her cheek. “Men stare at you. Can’t blame them.”
Next winter, their son was born. New Year’s was now a family affair—her mum arrived, arms full of knitted blue-and-white baby clothes.
Once, pushing the pram, she ran into Tabitha, whose daughter waddled like a pink teddy bear. Proudly, Rosemary showed off her son.
Walking home, she smiled. Soon, she’d unwrap her long-awaited joy, cook supper, and wait for Henry. What more could a woman want?
*Sometimes, happiness is just one step away—if only we dare take it.*
