One Step to Happiness
Since she was little, Emily had been pretty—petite, blonde, with just the right figure and the face of an angel. After university, she stayed in London to work. But her love life was a different story. She never lacked male attention, yet no one ever proposed. And now she was nearly thirty.
At first, she joked there was no rush—she had time. Then, as time often does, it played its tricks, and she grew wistful.
“Maybe someone cursed you? Think—did you ever cross anyone’s path?” her mum’s friend asked last New Year’s.
“I’ve never crossed anyone, never took what wasn’t mine, never wrecked a marriage,” Emily replied firmly.
“Then someone must’ve been jealous,” Aunt Irene declared.
Emily didn’t argue. People had envied her before—even at school. Boys flocked to her. She aced her studies, saving romance for later.
Her mother had raised her alone. They never struggled, but luxury was rare. Mum was brilliant at knitting—delicate, cosy, stylish jumpers in every colour. She even sold them.
“Don’t be silly, Irene. She’s got suitors lined up! She just shouldn’t rush,” Mum defended.
“Suitors aren’t husbands—or at least not a decent lover,” Irene shot back.
“What’s the difference?” Mum huffed. The thought of her clever girl as someone’s mistress was unthinkable.
“Just a stamp in a passport—but that matters for a child. Some lovers treat women better than husbands…” And off Irene went, bragging about her own lover who bought her a flat and paid for her son’s schooling while her useless, drunk ex-husband was long gone.
Emily decided then—no more New Year’s with Mum and Irene. She’d rather be alone.
As the year ended, Emily walked carefully, avoiding icy patches, and stepped aside for a woman pushing a pram.
“Emily!” the woman gasped, stopping short. “Don’t you recognise me? It’s Lucy—Lucy Harper now!”
“Lucy.” Emily forced a smile. “You look different. Living in London long?”
“Three years now! Fancy bumping into you like this. I heard you—” Lucy was clearly gearing up for a long chat.
“Yours?” Emily cut in, glancing at the pram. Mothers loved praising their babies. “May I look?”
“Of course! My little girl.” Lucy’s voice glowed.
Emily peered under the pram’s canopy. Nestled in lace and a knitted pink bonnet was a tiny angel—rosy cheeks, bow-shaped lips, lashes resting like feathers. The scent of milk, sleep, and wool wafted up.
“Beautiful. Takes after her dad?”
“She does! When she was born—” Lucy began eagerly.
“Sorry, I’m in a rush. We’ll catch up another time,” Emily lied, hurrying off.
Her mood soured. “Of all people in this massive city—Lucy! A total wallflower at school, and now—married, settled, a baby. Overflowing with happiness. While mine’s gone missing. Years pass, and I’m still alone…”
Lost in thought, she reached her flat. The Christmas tree, decorated a week ago, now irritated her. A reminder of the holiday—and no one to share it with.
She’d just changed and put the kettle on when her phone rang.
“You home, love? I’ll be over soon,” William said.
She almost lied—said she was out. The passion had faded long ago, leaving only habit. He’d divorced years back, though he still lived with his ex “for their daughter’s sake.”
Sighing, she said yes and started dinner.
William arrived half an hour later with a gift bag.
“Here, love. In case I can’t make it for New Year’s. Work’s mad, year-end reports, promised my daughter I’d take her to see the lights…”
She barely listened but smiled at the gift—red lace lingerie and a velvet box with a gold heart pendant.
“Thank you!” She pecked his cheek.
“Can’t stay for dinner, sorry.” He tugged her toward the bedroom.
It was nice—but fleeting. Afterwards, as he dressed, she sat wrapped in a sheet.
“How old’s your daughter?” she asked suddenly.
He froze, trousers in hand, squinting at the ceiling as if the answer was written there. One leg was already in; the other, pale and hairy in a black sock, looked oddly repellent—chicken-skin cold. She looked away, wondering what she ever saw in him.
“Ten, I think. Yeah, ten.”
At ten, Emily had been all knees and plaits, big-eyed after her dad left when she was seven. She pitied William’s daughter.
When he finally left, she bundled the sheets into the wash and stood under the shower. “No more. Enough. Let him be with his family.”
On her day off, she slept in, breakfasted, and headed out to shop for Mum’s gift—maybe boots. They wore the same size. Knitting wool was already bought.
Memories of Lucy nagged her. “Even Lucy—plain, quiet Lucy—got married. I’d make a good wife. I can cook, knit. Imagine the beautiful things I’d make for my child… Why does happiness find some and skip others? I don’t want a model or a millionaire—just a decent man who’ll stay and love me. Is that too much?”
Absentmindedly, she stepped onto a crossing without checking the lights.
Horns blared; cars screeched. Head down, she hurried across, ignoring the chaos. Safe on the other side, tears streaked her cheeks.
“You’re crying. What’s wrong? Someone die?” A man blocked her path. “Only grief makes people risk their lives like that.”
Bewildered, she stared.
“Come on.” He ushered her into a café, ordered coffee, and rubbed her chilly hands. “Better?”
She cradled the warm cup, eyes closed.
“Fight with your husband?” He switched to an easy tone as wine appeared.
She sipped, warmth spreading, and found herself spilling everything—William, Mum’s knitting, her loneliness.
George (as he introduced himself) listened intently. “You’re a catch. Pretty, practical, knits. Most beauties only shop and club-hop. Ditch that bloke—wait, you already did. Good. Forget the past. Mine’s messy too—another time. Let me walk you home. Then, properly, I’ll come back with flowers, and we’ll start fresh.”
They saw in the New Year together—and as they say, how you start is how it goes. By April, they married.
That May, strolling in Hyde Park, she spotted William with his stout wife and equally stout daughter. She turned away, seeking George—who returned grinning with two ice creams.
“Can’t blame men for staring. You’re gorgeous.” He kissed her cheek. She smiled but didn’t look back.
By next winter, they had a son. New Year’s was now a family affair—Mum visiting, arms full of knitted blue-and-white baby grows and tiny socks.
Once, pushing the pram, Emily ran into Lucy, now leading a toddling bear-cub of a girl in pink. Proudly, she showed off her son.
Walking home, Emily smiled. Soon, she’d undress and smother her long-awaited joy in kisses, cook dinner, and wait for George. What more could a woman want?
