Happiness in the Palm of Her Hand
Rosalind studied her reflection in the mirror—the elongated face, the sharp nose, thin lips, and those cold, pale grey eyes. She had been cursed with such a face. Only her hair pleased her—thick and black, falling in a long fringe over her eyes.
“You take after your father. He was handsome, or I wouldn’t have fallen for him. Cornish roots,” her mother reassured her. “When you’re older, you’ll see—your beauty is refined. Not everyone will appreciate it, of course.”
Rosalind had no memory of her father. He had left before she turned two. Her uncle Robert, though, she remembered—a boisterous man with a ruddy face who tossed her in the air, laughing. He always brought sweets or cheap toys when he visited. As a child, she loved climbing onto his lap, breathing in his scent—expensive tobacco and brandy, her mother later told her. Back then, her mother had seemed happy with him. Even now, Rosalind associated that scent with what a real man ought to be.
When she grew older, she asked why they hadn’t married.
“He was already wed. Had a son,” her mother said, her voice still heavy with longing years later.
Then came Uncle William—whom Rosalind had driven away herself. He reeked of motor oil and socks. Small and wiry, with a potato nose and a slack lower lip that left his mouth perpetually half-open, he rarely smiled. His eyes drooped at the corners, giving him a mournful look. He always arrived with wine or vodka and a bar of chocolate.
“Where’s the harm in a drink with supper? Helps lift the spirits after a hard day’s work,” he’d say, catching Rosalind’s twelve-year-old glare.
At first, her mother drank little. Then she took to it. Bought bottles herself. When Uncle William didn’t come, she drank alone, weeping in the kitchen. Rosalind wasn’t a child anymore—she knew if this continued, her mother would drink herself into ruin.
One afternoon, while her mother was out, she confronted him.
“Uncle William, are you married?”
He faltered, blinking rapidly.
“How did you—?”
“Go home to your wife. Now,” she demanded.
“Since when do you order me about, you little witch? I came to see your mother, not you.”
“Then you’ve seen me too. And I don’t like you. Leave, or I’ll tell your wife everything.”
Whether he was afraid or not, he never returned. Her mother wept, drank, and waited.
“Enough. If you don’t stop, I’ll leave. Do you hear me?” Rosalind snatched the bottle and poured it down the sink.
Her mother sobbed, blaming her for ruining any chance at happiness. But she stopped drinking. Once a striking redhead, she had drawn men effortlessly. Now, faded with age, her hair thinning and grey, suitors became rare—much to Rosalind’s relief—until they vanished altogether.
After school, Rosalind enrolled in teacher training college.
“With your looks, it’s the safest path,” her mother once said bitterly.
She met Daniel at a student festival. He courted her gently—never rushed, never pressured. With him, she felt at ease. By their second year, he proposed, hesitantly. She said it was too soon—they were still students, with no means to support themselves.
“You’re a fool. With your face and temper, you’ll never find a better match. He doesn’t drink, he’s from a good family—what more do you want?”
So she agreed. After a modest wedding, they moved into Daniel’s tiny flat—a cramped kitchen, a narrow hallway, paper-thin walls. His father had died two years prior, and he refused to leave his mother alone.
At night, Rosalind couldn’t relax, knowing his mother lay just beyond the wall, awake and listening. Their couplings were furtive, hurried. Children were unthinkable. Each morning, she avoided everyone’s eyes.
Daniel’s mother ruled the kitchen. When Rosalind offered to help, she was waved away—”Plenty of time for that later. Let me care for my son while I can.”
Money was tight. Two stipends and a pension couldn’t stretch far. Daniel took night shifts as a warehouse guard. Rosalind dreamed of moving to London after graduation—most did—but he refused. His mother needed him.
Even when his mother visited her sister, old habits held. They made love quietly, quickly.
“Let’s get a mortgage. You can visit your mother daily, but we’ll have our own space.”
“And spend every penny on rent? How would we live? Be patient—we’ll find our footing.”
Then came the conference in Edinburgh. Three days away from teaching, from Daniel, from that stifling flat. Most attendees were women, and the few men received keen attention—especially handsome Alistair MacAllister. The women preened, lips stretched in painted smiles. Rosalind, among the youngest, watched with amusement.
Bored during a lecture, she slipped out to the lobby. Alistair followed.
“Dull, isn’t it? Fancy a walk? You can’t leave without seeing the city.”
She agreed. April snow melted into slush. The River Forth churned under a sky that flickered between sleet and pale sun.
“Edinburgh weather—as changeable as a woman’s mind,” Alistair quipped.
They never returned to the conference. His car took them to historic lanes. And in a dim alley, it happened—clumsy, rushed, stifling. But Rosalind was used to discomfort. She spent the night at his place.
The next morning, they arrived late. The women’s glances hissed: *Him? With that nose?*
When the conference ended, Rosalind stayed behind. She called home, claiming flu. Coughed for effect.
“Leave that misery. What holds you there? If there were children, maybe—but like this?” Alistair pleaded after she confessed her marriage.
He had been married once. His ex-wife had taken their daughter to Canada.
“Why me?” she asked.
“Why not? You’re extraordinary—like some exotic bird strayed far from home. The rest are rulebooks. You should be in films.” His hand traced her bare shoulder.
“I can’t just leave. But I’ll think on it.”
The whole journey home, she debated. The flat felt smaller than ever. Daniel asked no questions—just smiled tightly. That night, she dreaded his touch. But he left for work. She slept deeply for the first time in days.
Remembering Alistair’s spacious flat, she raised the mortgage again. Again, Daniel deferred.
“I can’t live like this. We’re like siblings. We’ll never have our own home. Never. How could we raise a child here? Soon I won’t *be able* to—”
“I knew this was coming. I don’t blame you. You came back different,” he said quietly.
The next day, she took unpaid leave and went to Edinburgh. Alistair was delighted. But a night was one thing; living together, another. She missed Daniel’s teasing, their shared silences. Twelve years had made him part of her. She wondered how he fared alone.
Alistair grew impatient. *Why pine for that nobody?* Nights, she lay awake. No relationship was perfect—no person. She couldn’t acclimate to Alistair’s sprawling bed. She missed Daniel.
Worse, she couldn’t cook. Potatoes burned; pasta turned to mush. Back home, Daniel’s mother had done it all.
Alistair skipped breakfast, lunched at work, dined out. It only confirmed her mistake.
One sleepless night, as she agonized—stay with Alistair, guilt-ridden, or return to that cramped flat—the phone rang.
“Mother? What’s wrong?”
“Run off, have you? Left your husband? I expected as much. You’re your father’s daughter.”
“You called at this hour to scold me?”
“I couldn’t wait. Daniel’s in hospital. Robbers raided the warehouse. He hit the alarm, but they shot him.”
“Alive?” she shrieked, forgetting Alistair beside her.
“Barely. In a coma.”
“What’s happened?” Alistair rubbed his eyes.
“I have to go. Now.”
“Wait for morning. I’ll drive you.”
“No. Call a cab.”
She took the first flight. A taxi to the station. Two hours in a stifling train. At the hospital, dawn was breaking. They barred her entry—too early. She begged, wept. Finally, a nurse brought a gown.
Inside, Daniel lay pale, bandaged, wired to machines. She clasped his limp hand, pressing her cheek to it.
“I’m here. I came back. Forgive me. Just live.”
Staff pried her away, then relented when she vowed silence.
Exhausted, she slept against his arm.
“RosA year later, holding her newborn daughter beneath the old oak tree where Daniel had first kissed her, Rosalind finally understood that happiness had been hers all along, patiently waiting for her to open her eyes.
