The Little Grey Mouse Is Happier Than You — “Olivia, honestly now,” sighed Marina, eyeing her old linen dress as though it were some dubious museum relic. “Do you really wear that rag? Around your husband?” Olivia instinctively smoothed her hem. The dress was soft, comfortable from years of washing. “I like it…” “You like a lot of things,” Svetlana chimed in, not looking up from her phone. “Sitting at home, cooking stews, knitting doilies. Do you ever realise youth is slipping away? You need to live, not just exist.” Marina nodded vigorously, her new gold hoops swinging with every motion. “We went to that new restaurant in Soho with Andrew yesterday. Heavenly! And you, I bet, fried potatoes again?” Olivia did. With mushrooms, just how Michael liked. He’d come home exhausted, eaten two portions, and fell asleep on her shoulder in front of the telly. Olivia didn’t mention that. Why bother? Her friends wouldn’t understand anyway… …Years ago, three close friends got married within months of each other. Olivia remembered it clearly: her understated registry ceremony, Marina’s lavish do with live music and fireworks, and then Svetlana’s reception, where each guest received a handmade wedding favour. Olivia had noticed her friends exchanging looks when she spoke about honeymoon plans at Michael’s parents’ cottage. Marina snorted into her champagne, Svetlana rolled her eyes so dramatically it couldn’t be missed. Ever since, their jibes had become a familiar chorus. Olivia learned to ignore it, though it always ached a little inside. Marina was the sort of woman who entered a room and instantly drew attention. Loud laughter, grand gestures, endless stories about who said what to whom. Her flat with Andrew became a social hub: friends, colleagues, strangers coming and going, leaving behind dirty glasses and red wine stains on the pale rug. “We’re having about fifteen round on Saturday,” Marina would declare on the phone. “Come! Andrew’s grilling.” Olivia politely declined. Michael wanted peace at the end of his working week, not crowds of strangers in their kitchen. “Well, stay in your burrow, then,” Marina shot back, a note of pity in her voice. Andrew, at first, played along. Helped set the table, joked with guests, patiently cleaned up after. Olivia saw him at those rare gatherings—tired eyes, forced smile, robotic movements. He poured wine, laughed at the right cues, but his gaze drifted off more and more. “Andy, what’s with the glum face?” Marina would pinch his cheek in front of everyone. “Smile, or people’ll think I’m starving you!” Andrew grinned. The guests laughed. Olivia wondered how long you could wear a mask before it became your face. Or before the urge came to rip it off, skin and all… …Ten years on, the mask cracked. Andrew left for a colleague—a quiet woman from accounts, rumoured to bring him homemade pies and never raise her voice. Marina was the last to know, though the office was abuzz for weeks. “He’s left me,” Marina sobbed down the phone, crashing and banging audible in the background. “Ungrateful sod! I gave him my best years! And he’s gone!” Olivia listened silently. What was there to say? That Andrew had spent ten years falling asleep to someone else’s laughter, waking up to someone else’s chatter? That a home isn’t meant to be a non-stop party? After the divorce, it transpired the flat was mortgaged, with debts enough for a small plane. Marina was left alone, digging out from under it all, and her laughter became rare. Meanwhile, Svetlana was building her empire of perfect living. Her social feeds sparkled with photos: restaurants, boutiques, holidays abroad. Immaculate shots with flawless makeup, captions about “happiness” and “gratitude to the universe.” husband Denis lingered in the background—a blurry silhouette funding the glossy life. “Look,” Svetlana shoved her phone under Olivia’s nose. “Ksyusha’s husband gave her a Cartier necklace. Mine? He’ll just buy something pointless again.” “Maybe he enjoys choosing for you?” Svetlana eyed Olivia strangely. “No. I sent him a list—he can pick from there.” Olivia kept quiet. Michael had brought her a book she’d wanted, found in a little shop by the tube, wrapped in brown paper himself. She didn’t mention it—Svetlana would just mock such “poverty.” For five years, Denis kept pace with expectations. Overtime, extra shifts, always pushing for the next rung Svetlana raised higher. Then he met a bookshop assistant—divorced, child, no manicure or designer bags. She looked at him as if he was enough. Just as he was. The divorce was quick and messy. Svetlana demanded everything, got half—by law, not choice. Their finances were gutted: spa memberships, beauty treatments, endless shopping trips. No savings left. “How am I supposed to live now?” Svetlana sat in a café, tears streaking her cheeks. “On what?” Olivia sipped her coffee, noting that Svetlana never once asked how she was, or about Michael, or if they were well. The questions always revolved around Svetlana. Both friends found themselves in similar straights: no husbands, no money, no familiar lifestyle. Marina took on two jobs to pay off debts. Svetlana downsized and stopped posting photos. And Olivia… carried on just as she always had. Cooked Michael’s dinners, asked about his day, listened to tough negotiations and supply problems. No demands for gifts, no tantrums, no comparisons. Simply present; reliable as a house’s walls, warm as the kitchen light. Michael valued it. One day, he came home with a folder and laid it on the table. “What’s this?” “Half my business. Yours now.” Olivia stared at the papers, not daring to touch. “But why?” “Because you’ve earned it. Because I want you protected. Because none of this would exist without you.” A year later, he bought a bright, spacious flat—with big windows, registered in her name. Olivia wept on his shoulder; Michael stroked her hair and called her his treasure. His quiet harbour. Then the old friends began popping round for tea. At first rarely, then more often. They perched on the new sofa, stroked silk cushions, examined the paintings. Olivia saw it all on their faces: confusion, dismay, thinly disguised envy. “How do you have all this?” Marina scanned the room. “Michael gave it to me.” “For no reason?” “For no reason.” Her friends exchanged glances. Olivia poured them coffee in silence. On one visit, Marina snapped, setting her cup down so sharply the coffee splashed. “Tell me—why? Why did we lose everything, and you, the little grey mouse, get to remain happy?” Silence hung over the table. Svetlana stared out the window, twisting a ring—cheap jewellery now, not the diamond she once wore. Olivia could have answered. She could have spoken about patience, about caring for small things, about how happy marriages are not public parties but daily hard work. She could have said that loving is listening, noticing, cherishing. Not demanding, but giving. But why? For twenty years these women had looked through her, treating her as background furniture. For twenty years their advice was “live bolder,” “don’t be boring.” For twenty years, they never heard anything beyond their own voices. “Must be luck,” Olivia said, and smiled. After that, the visits stopped. In the end, envy outweighed friendship, history, even sense. It was easier to turn away than admit they’d been wrong all these years. Olivia didn’t mind. Amazingly, the empty space left by those friendships filled with calm clarity. As if she’d taken off tight shoes and could finally breathe. …Another ten years passed. Olivia turned fifty-four, and life was good. Grown children, a grandchild, Michael still bringing her books wrapped in brown paper. She learned by chance Marina never remarried, worked two jobs and regularly complained about her health. Svetlana cycled through three more men; each relationship ended the same way—with endless demands, grievances, conditions. Olivia listened without gloating. Simply listened, and thought about how sometimes it’s the little grey mice who find happiness. Quiet, invisible from the outside, but priceless within. She switched off her phone and began to make dinner. Michael had promised to be home early—and asked for fried potatoes with mushrooms…

The grey mouse is happier than you

Emily, be serious, Charlotte eyed her old cotton dress as if it was a battered relic rescued from a forgotten attic. Do you really wear that scruffy thing? Around your husband?

Emily tugged absently at the hem. The dress was worn soft by years of wash and sun.

I like it…
Like it, she says… You like all sorts of odd bits, chimed in Alice, her face lit by the bluish glow of her phone. Sitting at home, making stews, crocheting doilies. Do you even realise youth doesnt last forever? You ought to live, not simply exist.

Charlotte nodded keenly, her new earrings fat gleaming hoops swinging with each dramatic gesture:

Henry and I went to that new place in Soho last night. Divine! I suppose you fried up potatoes. Again.

Emily had fried them. With mushrooms, just as William liked. He came home exhausted, ate two helpings, and dozed off against her shoulder in front of the telly. Emily hadnt told anyone. Why bother? Her friends would never understand.

Once, all three friends married within months of each other. Emily remembered that year: her quiet registry service, Charlottes lavish affair with live band and fireworks, then Alices celebration where every guest received a personalized party favour. Even then, Emily noticed the exchanged glances when she mentioned honeymoon plans a week at Williams parents cottage in Norfolk. Charlotte snorted into her prosecco, and Alice rolled her eyes so clearly you could almost hear it.

The subtle jabs became a constant background hum; Emily learnt to tune them out, though every time something ached quietly inside.

Charlotte swept into every room, impossible to ignore laughter booming, arms wide, endless tales of who said what and who looked at whom. Her flat with Henry buzzed like Piccadilly Circus: friends, workmates, stray acquaintances drifting in and out, leaving behind smudged wine glasses and ruby stains on the pale rug.

Well have about twenty over Saturday, Charlotte announced down the line. Come round! Henrys doing a roast.

Emily politely turned her down. William craved silence after his week, not strangers ransacking the kitchen.

So keep hiding in your mousehole, Charlotte sighed, her voice flickering with something like pity.

At first, Henry played along. Set the table, joked with guests, swept up the aftermath. Emily glimpsed him at the rare parties she braved: tired eyes, taut smile, mechanical motions. He filled glasses, laughed at cues, but his gaze drifted further away every time.

Henry, you look sour, Charlotte tweaked his cheek in front of everyone. Smile, else theyll think I starve you.

Henry smiled dutifully. Everyone laughed. Emily wondered how long a mask can be worn before it bonds to your skin, or before youd tear it off, flesh and all.

Ten years later, the mask split. Henry left Charlotte for a quiet woman in accounts who, rumour had it, brought him home-baked pies for lunch and never raised her voice. Charlotte learned last, even as whispers whipped round the whole office for weeks.

Hes left me, Charlotte sobbed into the phone, clattering something in the background. Ungrateful wretch! I gave him my best years. And hes abandoned me!

Emily listened. What could she say? That Henry spent ten years falling asleep to other peoples laughter, waking to voices not his own? That a house cant be all endless celebration?

After the divorce, it turned out the flat was mortgaged to the hilt and the debts couldve bought a small car. Charlotte was left alone, untangling the financial mess her loud laughter faded to something thin and lonely.

Meanwhile Alice was building her own shiny empire. Her Facebook was cluttered with photos: restaurants, boutiques, holidays by the sea. Perfect makeup and captions about bliss and gratitude to the universe. Her husband Daniel faded into the background a blurred silhouette sustaining it all.

Look at this, Alice shoved her phone under Emilys nose. Sophies husband got her a necklace from Tiffany. And mine? Another silly trinket.
Maybe he prefers choosing himself?

Alice gave Emily a look as if shed spoken Greek:

No thanks. I texted him a list. He can pick from that.

Emily kept quiet. Yesterday William had found her a book she wanted, hunted it down in a little independent shop near the station, wrapped it in brown paper, all himself. Emily didnt mention it Alice would only snigger at such poverty.

For five years Daniel met every expectation. Overtime, extra shifts, stretching for the finish line Alice kept raising out of reach. Then he met a girl at the bookstore divorced, a child in tow, no manicured nails or designer bags. She looked at him as though he was already enough. No requirements. No checklist.

Their split was quick and messy. Alice demanded everything, got half legal not generous. By then, the family accounts had been cleaned bare: spa subscriptions, beauty treatments, relentless shopping trips. Not a penny saved.

How am I supposed to live? Alice wept in a café, streaking mascara over coffees she couldnt afford. On what?

Emily drank her tea and realised: for all the years, Alice never asked how Emily lived, how William was, if their health was fine. Her world had circled a single sun herself.

Both friends ended up in the same boat: no husbands, no money, no familiar shiny routines. Charlotte took another job to chip away at her loans. Alice moved into a smaller flat and stopped posting photos.

Emilys days went on much the same. She cooked William his suppers, asked about his work, listened to tangled tales of supplier mishaps and tricky negotiations. No demands, no scenes, no weighing her life against some glossy ideal. She was there: solid as the house walls, warm as lamplight in a kitchen window.

William noticed. One night he came home carrying a folder and laid it on the table.

Whats this?
Half the business. Yours now.

Emily stared at the papers, afraid to touch.

Why?
Because you earned it. Because I want you safe. Because none of this would exist without you.

A year later, he bought her a flat bright, roomy, huge windows. Signed it in her name. Emily cried into his shoulder, and William stroked her hair, calling her his treasure, his quiet port in a storm.

Old friends started popping round more often. First rarely, then more and more. They sat on the new sofa, fingered the silk pillows, studied the art on the walls. Emily saw it in their faces: confusion, unease, half-hidden envy.

Wheres all this come from? Charlotte surveyed the sitting room.
William gave it to me.
Justgave it?
Just because.

Charlotte and Alice exchanged glances. Emily refilled their tea and said nothing.
One visit, Charlotte finally snapped. She thumped down her cup, splashing coffee over the saucer and burst out:

Tell me why. Why did we lose everything and you, you grey mouse, keep on being happy?

A hush settled over the cake plates. Alice stared out the window, pretending not to care, fingers fidgeting with a tacky ring instead of diamond.

Emily could have answered. She could have spoken about patience. About noticing tiny things. About how true happiness in marriage isnt loud parties, but daily, tender graft. About how to love is to listen, see, protect. Not demand, but give.

But why bother? For twenty years the advice had been live larger and dont be dull. For twenty years no one saw her, just the background furniture to their noisy dramas.

Maybe Im just lucky, Emily smiled.

After that, the visits petered out. Finally stopped altogether. Jealousy overpowered old friendship, shared history, common sense. Easier to turn away than admit they’d been wrong.

Emily didnt grieve. Oddly, the absence filled up with gentle, clear peace as if shed finally kicked off too-tight shoes, finally breathing free.

Another ten years passed. Emily turned fifty-four, life humming gently. Grown-up children, a grandson, William still bringing her books in brown paper. By chance, she heard from an old acquaintance that Charlotte never remarried, still worked two jobs, always complaining of her health. Alice had tried three new men, but every relationship crumbled under the same storm of grievances and demands.

Emily listened, without gloating. She simply thought how sometimes the grey mice find real happiness: quiet, invisible outside, priceless inside.

She switched off her phone and went to prepare supper. William had promised to come home early and requested, of course, fried potatoes with mushrooms.