The Long-Awaited Happiness
From her youth, Emily had never been lucky with men. At thirty-two, she remained unmarried, though she’d always dreamed of it. She longed for a child, certain it was time to become a mother—to pour all her love into a little one of her own. Yet, as if cursed, she kept stumbling upon married men, none of whom were in a hurry to admit it.
Eventually, the truth always surfaced, and disappointment struck again and again. Finally, she resolved:
“Enough of them, these men. How many mistakes must I make? Why do I attract the married ones? What’s wrong with me?”
Sitting in her kitchen with her friend Charlotte after yet another unpleasant encounter—one that had left her shaken just hours before—Emily wiped her tears, whispering:
“Tell me, Charlotte, what have I done to deserve this? No more men, no more romances, no more attachments.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, love,” Charlotte soothed. “If anything, you ought to throw yourself into something new. A fresh start, and you’ll forget all this.”
Emily had just returned from the shops—a Saturday errand, stocking her near-empty fridge. Midweek, she’d had no time for groceries. Then, a knock at the door. She opened it.
A furious woman stood on the threshold.
“Emily?” she demanded.
“Yes. Who are you?”
Without warning, the woman seized Emily’s hair, shrieking:
“Who am I? I’m James’s wife, that’s who! You’ll remember this!” Just as suddenly, she spun on her heel and stormed off, cursing down the hallway.
Emily slammed the door, her heart pounding. She stood frozen in the corridor, stunned. This had never happened before. And how could it? James had sworn he wasn’t married—even offered to show his passport.
Once she’d steadied herself, she called Charlotte, who lived nearby. Within minutes, her friend arrived.
“Charlotte, what ‘fresh start’ can there be? Another mess, another furious wife at my door. This time, she only grabbed my hair—what if the next one does worse?” She touched her scalp gingerly.
“Honestly, Emily, I don’t know how you keep finding the married ones. Here’s an idea—ask to see their passport straightaway. Check for a marital stamp.”
“You’re joking!” Emily scoffed. “How would that look? ‘Show me your papers before we even say hello’?” Charlotte burst out laughing.
“Alright, fair point. But plenty of couples live together unmarried these days—no stamp doesn’t mean a thing. Look at me and Tom—two kids, no ring.”
“Exactly my point. You can’t tell just by looking. I can’t take any more of this stress,” Emily muttered.
“Fine. If that’s how you feel, what will you do instead? A woman needs a family—you ought to be a mother. Why not have a child on your own? Doesn’t matter if the father’s married or not.”
“You know… I’ve actually been thinking about that,” Emily admitted.
Time passed. One evening, after work, Emily ate dinner alone in her kitchen, as usual. Just as she cleared the dishes, the doorbell rang.
“Who could that be?” she wondered, opening the door.
A young man stood there, holding a red wallet.
“Good evening. I’m Oliver. I believe this is yours?” He extended it to her.
Emily eyed him warily but took the wallet, flipping it open. Inside was a photo of her mother—she lived far away, and Emily missed her terribly.
“Yes, it’s mine. But how did you find me?”
“Your name and a phone number were on a slip inside. I called—your friend Charlotte answered and gave me your address.”
“Oh! Right—she suggested I keep that note in there. Once, I nearly fainted on the bus, and she was the only one who helped. She said, ‘Just in case.’ Thank you so much. It’s good to know there are still honest people out there.”
She fell silent, staring at the wallet. Oliver made to leave, but she suddenly offered:
“Would you like some tea?”
“Thank you, but I’m in a hurry. Another time, perhaps? Goodbye.”
As she closed the door, Emily thought,
“Probably rushing home to his wife.”
Three days later, the bell rang again. She opened it.
“Hello,” Oliver said, holding out a bouquet of flowers. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. If you’re free, would you like to take a walk?”
Emily hesitated. She’d sworn off men. But Oliver was handsome, and she’d liked him instantly. Then she blurted:
“Oliver, are you married?”
“No. I’m not.”
“Then… yes, I’d like that,” she said, smiling.
They met often after that. Emily gushed to Charlotte, who was delighted.
“See? I told you! Thank goodness—I’m so happy for you!”
A week later, Emily stopped at the supermarket after work. Before she could enter, she spotted Oliver—carrying heavy bags, a pretty woman at his side, holding the hand of a little boy, about five. They climbed into Oliver’s car and drove off.
“Charlotte… Oliver’s married,” Emily said flatly into the phone. “That’s it. I’m joining a convent.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. He lied. The rat. I saw him with his wife and child, clear as day.”
The next day, Oliver arrived as if nothing had happened.
“Why are you here? You lied—you said you weren’t married. Get out. I never want to see you again.”
Oliver was baffled until she explained.
“Emily, that was my sister, Grace. The boy’s her son, Alfie.”
“Stop lying,” she snapped.
“Fine—I’ll call her right now.” He dialed, and to Emily’s shock, Grace confirmed it.
Soon, the three of them—Emily, Oliver, and Alfie—often strolled together in the park. Emily adored the bright-eyed, clever little boy, though at five, he still hadn’t spoken. The doctor assured them he would in time.
Emily felt like part of Oliver’s family. Grace was warm and kind, always welcoming her. She dreamed of Oliver proposing—but he stayed silent, though he often spoke of wanting a true family.
One Sunday, they went to the park.
“Alfie wants rides and ice cream,” Oliver said, and Emily agreed eagerly.
A warm August breeze rustled the dry leaves underfoot. Alfie darted across the grass—then bolted toward the swings.
“Alfie, stop!” Oliver shouted, sprinting after him. “Stop, son! STOP!”
Emily watched in horror as the boy neared the violently swinging seat. Oliver lunged, grabbing him just in time. The swing whooshed past as Oliver clutched Alfie tightly.
“Alfie, my boy,” he murmured, trembling.
“Dad,” Alfie said suddenly. Oliver froze. “Dad,” he repeated.
“Emily, did you hear? He spoke!”
“I heard. But… you’re his father?”
“Yes,” Oliver admitted, holding Alfie close. “His mother died three years ago—an accident. I didn’t tell you because… not every woman wants a man with a child. But you and Alfie… I’d hoped you might be the mother he needs. Emily, will you marry me?”
Emily stood stunned—joy, hurt, and hope colliding. Oliver watched her, hopeful. Alfie gazed up, waiting.
“Well?” Oliver prompted.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”
Arm in arm, the three walked through the empty park, Alfie swinging between them, autumn leaves crunching beneath their feet.
