Accidental Happiness: The Story of Rahmat

**Rahmats Unexpected Happiness**

In that little town clinging to the edge of the map like a forgotten speck of dust, time didnt move by clocks but by seasons. It froze in bitter winters, thawed with the squelch of spring mud, drowsed in summer heat, and wept with autumns damp rains. And in that slow, syrupy flow, Lucys life seemed to drown.

Lucy was thirty, and her whole existence felt hopelessly stuck in the quicksand of her own body. She weighed eighteen stonenot just weight, but a fortress built between her and the world. A fortress of flesh, exhaustion, and quiet despair. She suspected the root of it lay somewhere insidesome malfunction, illness, a metabolism gone wrongbut seeing specialists in the county town was unthinkable: too far, humiliatingly expensive, and, she feared, pointless.

She worked as a nursery assistant at the council-run Little Bells Daycare. Her days smelled of talcum powder, overcooked porridge, and perpetually damp floors. Her large, impossibly kind hands could soothe a crying toddler, tuck in a dozen cots, or mop up a spilled drink without making a child feel guilty. The children adored her, drawn to her softness and gentle patience. But the quiet admiration in three-year-old eyes was poor payment for the loneliness that waited beyond the nursery gates.

She lived in an old eight-flat terrace, a relic from some long-gone era when the town had hope. The house groaned at night, its beams creaking as if afraid of strong winds. Two years ago, her mothera quiet, worn-out woman whod buried all her dreams within those same wallshad passed away. Lucy didnt remember her father at all; hed vanished long ago, leaving behind nothing but a dusty void and an old photograph.

Her life was harsh. The tap spat rusty water, the shared outdoor loo was an icebox in winter, and summers choked the rooms with stifling heat. But the real tyrant was the stove. In winter, it devoured two full lorry-loads of firewood, draining her meagre wages. Lucy spent long evenings staring at the flames behind the cast-iron door, feeling as though it wasnt just wood burningbut her years, her strength, her future, all crumbling to cold ash.

Then, one evening, as dusk soaked her room in grey gloom, a miracle happened. Not a grand one, just worn at the edges, like the slippers of her neighbour Margaret, who suddenly knocked on her door.

Margaret, a cleaner at the local hospital, her face lined with a lifetime of worries, held out two crisp twenty-pound notes.

“Lucy, love, Im sorry. Here. Forty quid. They were burning a hole in me pocket, honestly,” she muttered, pressing the money into Lucys hand.

Lucy stared, baffled. Shed written off that debt years ago.

“Margaret, you didnt have to”

“I did!” Margaret cut in fiercely. “Ive come into a bit of luck. Listen”

Lowering her voice as if sharing state secrets, she spun an unbelievable tale. How a group of lads from abroad had turned up in their town. How one of themapproaching her as she swept the pavementoffered a strange, frightening deal: two grand.

“Need citizenship, see. So theyre trawling towns like ours, looking for brides. Paperwork ones, for marriage. Got me hitched yesterday. Dunno how they sorted the registrybribes, I reckonbut it was quick. My bloke, Rashid, hes at mine now, for appearances. Once its dark, hell go. My girl, Emily, she agreed too. Needs a new coat, winters coming. What about you? Look, heres your chance. Need the money? Course you do. And whod marry you proper?”

The last words werent cruel, just brutally honest. Lucy felt the familiar ache under her ribs, hesitated only a second. Margaret was right. A real marriage wasnt in her future. No suitors, never had been, never would be. Her world was the nursery, the shops, and this room with its greedy stove. But two grandenough for firewood, new wallpaper to chase away the gloom of peeling walls.

“Alright,” she whispered. “Ill do it.”

The next day, Margaret brought the “candidate”. Lucy opened the door, gasped, and instinctively stepped back, wanting to hide her bulk. Before her stood a young man. Tall, slender, his face untouched by lifes harshness, with dark, sorrowful eyes.

“Lord, hes just a boy!” she blurted.

The lad straightened. “Im twenty-two,” he said clearly, the accent faint, just a lilting breath beneath his words.

“There you go,” Margaret chirped. “Mines fifteen years youngeryours is only eight. Prime of life, this one!”

At the registry office, they wouldnt marry them straight off. The clerk, in a sharp suit, eyed them suspiciously. “By law, you wait a month. To be sure,” she added pointedly.

The ladsbusiness doneleft. They had work. But before going, Rahmatthat was his nameasked for Lucys number.

“Gets lonely in a strange place,” he explained, and in his eyes, Lucy saw something familiar: lostness.

He started calling. Every evening. At first, the talks were brief, awkward. Then they lengthened. Rahmat was a surprising storyteller. He spoke of his mountains, a sun unlike Englands, his motherdeeply lovedhow hed come here to help his family. He asked about her life, her work, and to her shock, Lucy found herself talking. Not complaining, just sharingfunny nursery tales, her house, the smell of spring soil. She caught herself laughing into the phonegirlish, carefree, forgetting her weight, her age. In that month, they learned more of each other than some couples do in years.

A month later, Rahmat returned. Lucy, squeezing into her only silver dress, felt an odd flutternot fear, but anticipation. His matesserious, lean ladsstood as witnesses. The registry clerk rattled through the vows, indifferent. To Lucy, it was a blaze: the glint of rings, the unreality of it all.

Afterwards, Rahmat walked her home. Inside, he solemnly handed her the promised cash. She took it, feeling its weighther choice, her despair, her new role. Then, from his pocket, he drew a small velvet box. Inside, a delicate gold chain.

“A gift,” he said softly. “Wanted a ring, but didnt know your size. I I dont want to leave. I want you to really be my wife.”

Lucy froze.

“All month, Ive heard your soul over the phone,” he continued, his eyes burning. “Its kind. Pure, like my mothers. Shes gone now. My father loved her, his second wife. And Ive loved you, Lucy. Truly. Let me stay. With you.”

It wasnt a plea for a paper marriage. It was a proposal. And in his earnest, sorrowful eyes, Lucy sawnot pitybut respect, gratitude, and the beginnings of tenderness.

The next day, Rahmat left, but now it wasnt goodbyejust waiting. He worked in London, returning every weekend. When Lucy discovered she was pregnant, he sold his share in the business, bought a second-hand van, and came back for good. He started a delivery service, ferrying goods to the market town, his honesty and hard work quickly paying off.

Then their son was born. Three years later, another. Two beautiful, dark-eyed boys with their fathers gaze and their mothers gentle smile. Their home filled with shouts, laughter, tiny footstepsthe smell of real family.

Her husband didnt drink, didnt smokehis faith forbade itjust worked tirelessly, looking at Lucy with such love the neighbours sneered. The eight-year gap melted away, invisible.

But the real marvel was Lucy herself. She bloomed. Motherhood, happiness, care for her familyit reshaped her. The weight slipped off, day by day, as if it had been a shell she no longer needed. No dietsjust life, movement, joy. She grew lovely, her eyes bright, her step sure.

Sometimes, by the stovenow tended by Rahmatshed watch her sons play, feel her husbands warm gaze, and think of that strange evening, the forty quid, Margarets knock. The miracle that hadnt come with fanfare, but in a quiet tap at the door, bringing a stranger with sad eyeswhod given her not a paper marriage, but a whole new life. A real one.

Funny how happiness stumbles in when you least expect it. Makes you wonder what else might be waiting just beyond the next ordinary day.