Family ‘Happiness’: The Quirky Reality of Domestic Life

I shoved her hard enough to fling her through the front door and slammed it shut. Emma flew forward on sheer momentum, stumbled, and hit the rough wooden floor of the garden. She brushed the dust off her hands, sat on the damp boards and gingerly touched her burning cheek, then let her fingers glide down to her lower lip. A crimson line lingered on her fingertip. It didnt surprise Emma it merely confirmed what she already knew: Stephen had once again smashed her lip. The cheek hurt even more.

Stephen had lost control of himself again; that happened to him far too often.

Emma paced back to the doorway, pressed her forehead against the splintered timber and tried to catch her breath. From inside came the highpitched sobs of her two little girls, Lucy and Nina, Stephens daughters. My heart clenched tight and painful. I hoped he wouldnt harm them either She pressed her tongue to the swollen, saltytasting lip, a reminder of another quarrel, another flash of blind, raging jealousy.

All of it stemmed from one foolish smile. Earlier that day, at the work gathering, the boss a blustery man in his fifties, rosycheeked and boisterous made a cheeky remark about the harvest. Emma, standing nearby, let out a nervous laugh out of politeness. Gillian, Stephens sister, saw it. Her sharp, needlelike glance lingered a fraction too long on Emma. That was enough. Without a second thought, Gillian raced home and told Stephen everything, sprinkling in her own twisted version. She always did that, fully aware of Stephens temper when he was angry.

Emma pushed off the jamb, shivered, and limped to the shed, sitting on a cold log. The September evening was warm for daytime, yet a night chill already seeped from the ground. A prickly wind slipped under her thin scarf. She longed for the warmth of the hearth, for the children but there was nowhere to go. To Stephens family? Gillian would meet her at the door with a cutting remark. Her own relatives were gone. Her mother had died a year ago. The thought made her heart tighten even more, and hot, bitter tears streamed down her cheeks. She missed her mothers comforting smells dried apple jam and the faint whiff of the kitchen fire and her gentle, soothing words that could ease any pain. Now there was no one to soothe hers.

What on earth? she thought, watching the dusk gather strength. What have I done to deserve sitting at my locked front door like a stray dog, with no way out and no light?

Just seven years ago seven short years. She closed her eyes and, through the salty tide of tears, a different picture emerged the one where she was happy, with a loving man, both families preparing for a wedding.

***

The air was thick and sweet, scented with freshly cut grass and the approaching night. Emma walked sidebyside with Victor, the man who loved her completely.

Tomorrow, she whispered, staring toward the setting sun. I still cant believe it.

Victor squeezed her hand tighter. His large, warm palm enveloped her slender fingers.

I can believe it, he replied. Ive believed it since the day you dared climb that birch tree for a ball and were terrified to come down. Remember?

Emma laughed.

I remember. And you were down there shouting, Jump, Ill catch you. And you did.

Their love was the talk of the village. But it hadnt always been that simple. At the very start, Gillian Zamyatin Stephens sister, who later became Emmas husbands sister had liked Victor too. Who could resist his mischievous eyes and stubborn mop of hair? Gillian, burning with envy, tried everything to split them up. She whispered nasty things behind their backs: that Emma wasnt a match for Victor, that their families were poor. She coaxed other girls to avoid Emma, called her cold and flighty.

Yet none of that mud stuck to Emma. She passed through it like light through a window, leaving the glass clean and bright. That only fed Gillians fury, turning her bile into a deeper poison. Victor, however, shrugged off the gossip with a grin.

Not an angel, I know, hed say when someone tried to feed him a rumor. And Emma? Shes something else. Dont try to fool me.

Their relationship, despite the gossip, stayed remarkably innocent walks home, chats at the gate, shy kisses on the cheek. Everything changed a month before the wedding. Victor seemed different.

Before, after escorting her to the gate, hed turn away with a light heart, waving a few times. Now he clutched her so tightly it felt as if he wanted to swallow her whole, refusing to let go.

Victor, whats wrong? Emma asked, feeling his muscles tense.

I dont know, he replied hoarsely, burying his face in her hair. If I let go, Im scared Ill never see her again. My heart aches.

Dont be foolish, she whispered, stroking his cropped head. Well always be together. Tomorrow well see each other.

Tomorrow he sighed, a strange melancholy in his breath.

Later, Emmas mother, sighing, said, He sensed it, love. His young heart knew the separation was coming.

That evening, on the night before the celebration, Emma tried to hold him back.

Just one night, Victor, she pleaded softly. But a fierce passion seized Victor, and Emma melted under his kisses and touches. They lay halfpressed beneath a massive willow whose branches shielded them from prying eyes. No one walked that lane at night; the spot was secluded, almost sacred. Victors whispers were hot and broken, his hands trembled, tugging at the hem of her dress.

Doesnt matter, I cant wait any longer. Tomorrow youll be my wife. My wife! he declared.

She didnt resist; she wanted the same. The starfilled sky swam before her eyes, and Emma felt herself becoming a woman under that willows earthy, flowerladen shade.

When Victor finally wiped the tears from her cheeks, a satisfied smile crossed his face and he left home, perhaps to drown his emotions in the river. No one ever learned what truly happened there that dark night. His body was found the next day, the day their wedding was due, washed up on the opposite bank.

***

Grief hit Emma like a hammer. She withered, a shadow of herself, spending days by the window where Victor once tossed small stones to get her attention, running her fingers over the wedding dress she had stitched herself over many winter evenings. The white chiffon dress with lace sleeves felt like a lifeline. Her thin, translucent fingerslike waxabsently traced the lace, hoping the rhythm might give her an answer.

Why? she whispered, barely audible as a curtain rustling. Why?

Her mother, wiping tears from the edge of her apron, sobbed quietly, fearing Emma would snap like a dry twig and follow her fiancé into death.

In that bleak period, when silence settled over the house like a heavy blanket, Gillian appeared at the door, swollen from tears, dressed in a plain cotton frock. Her usually sharp eyes were full of remorse.

Emma Em she fell to her knees, clasping Emmas thin legs. Forgive me! By God, forgive my vile words! Victors gone and we have nothing left to share. Lets be friends again, like we were as children?

Emma sat rigid, like a statue. Her mother, leaning against the doorframe, watched uneasily. She didnt trust such sudden change. Then Emmas chest loosened. A soft, broken gasp escaped, followed by a flood of bitter, healing tears. She hugged Gillian, pressed her head against the womans shoulder, and wept, letting out all her pain.

Fine, her mother sighed quietly. Maybe Gillian will help. Otherwise, Ill be left with nothing when Victor is gone.

Thus began a strange, inexplicable friendship. Gillian never left Emmas side, staying over, chatting endlessly. She became Emmas shield against the world, her only anchor in a sea of sorrow.

Soon Stephen, Gillians cousin, entered the picture. He was a respectable, calm young man with serious eyes. He began bringing wildflowers and city delicacies for Emma. At first she turned away, refusing to even hear his name.

I cant, Gillian. That feels like betrayal.

What betrayal? Gillian pressed, stroking her hair. Life goes on, Emma. Victor wouldnt want you like this. Stephen is a good, reliable man. Hell love you, I know it.

Whether Stephens gentle persistence or Gillians soothing words acted as a balm, Emma finally gave in. She agreed to marry him. The wedding was modest, without music or many guests.

Nine months after Victors death, gossip began to flow through the village, first as a trickle, then a flood. Everyone condemned Emma, pointing fingers, whispering, Shes lost her mind! Shes flaunting herself! Who knows what she did on that river The words cut like sickles.

The most shocking part came when Emma and her mother overheard that the source of the rumors was Gillian herself, their oncetrusted friend. At the village well, Gillian sighed and confided to the neighbours, Poor Emma, I love her like a sister, but you cant hide the truth Victor never made it and Stephen rushed into marriage, didnt he? Perhaps he wanted to protect her honor

Her venomous, calculated revenge finally hit its mark.

Emmas idyllic life crumbled faster than a wedding cake. Stephen turned out to be far from the gentle, dependable husband shed imagined. After their first night together, he spat, Youre a tainted woman, his words dripping with contempt. The insult lodged in Emmas heart like ice. The tender lover vanished, replaced by a harsh, angry man with a permanent scowl. The house filled with vile accusations and relentless jealousy.

He watched her like a hawk: the shopkeeper who lingered a moment too long, the postman delivering letters, even old Mr. Nichols, the eightyyearold neighbour who liked to sit in the sunshine. Any polite greeting from Emma earned him a snarling, Are you still flirting with that old codger? I see everything!

Emma soon fell pregnant, but only a daughter was born. Stephen had hoped for a son and muttered, A girl again? Bring her back! I need a boy! He soon declared the children werent his, shouting, Who are these kids? In our line only men are born! He beat Emma, though in public he pretended a respectable family man.

When Emma tried to tell her mother about leaving, her mother suffered a sudden heart attack. The old woman could no longer rise, and Emma was forced to stay, caring for both the children and her ailing mother.

After her mother passed, Emmas strength finally broke. No one was left to listen to her woes; only she and her two small girls, Lucy and Nina, stared at her with frightened, helpless eyes.

Stephens new cruelty was to evict her at night. He would throw her out into the cold hallway, lock the door, and even strike her face before doing so.

Go warm yourself with old Mr. Nichols! hed shout from the doorway.

He knew that without the children, she couldnt escape far. She would sit on the cold steps, hug her knees, and weep beneath a black, starless sky, while the childrens frightened cries echoed from behind the door. She would bite her lip, wipe away tears, and pound on the door, begging to be let back in.

One night, after sitting on those steps and hearing her daughters soft whimpers, Emmas desperation hardened into steel. The hopelessness burned away, leaving a clear, cold resolve. At first cockcrow, as dawn turned grey, she rose. Her legs ached, her whole body ached, but fire sparked in her eyes.

The door opened. Stephen stood there, crumpled and weary.

Whats the use of standing like a statue? Go on, make breakfast, he barked, turning toward the kitchen.

Emma slipped inside without a word, her composure unnervingly calm, almost eerie. She knew Stephen would be out in the fields all day and wouldnt return until nightfall.

As soon as Stephens gate slammed shut, Emma set to work. This wasnt the usual household bustle. She moved quickly, silently, with razor focus. From a hidden compartment under the floorboards she pulled out an old leather satchel and began stuffing it with the few savings shed managed to hide in her belt, a change of underclothes for the girls, a handful of their toys, and several photographs of her mother. She dressed the girls in the warmest clothes she owned, even though the night was not bitterly cold.

Mother, where are we going? asked Lucy, eyes wide.

To a new life, love, Emma answered quietly, steady.

They slipped through hedgerows and over sagging fences, trying not to be seen. Reaching the country lane that led out of the village, Emma paused, breathless, glancing back at the ruin of her past. Ahead lay uncertainty.

They didnt get far before a dusty lorry roared past, ignoring the lone woman with two toddlers and a sack. Suddenly, a massive, mudcaked truck screeched to a halt beside them. The driver, a chatty lad named Sam, stuck his head out.

Need a lift, love? he shouted.

Emma, hardly believing her luck, nodded. Sam helped load the satchel and settled the girls on the sleeper berth.

The journey was long. Sam, a talkative and kind soul, tried to coax a story out of the silent Emma. She stared out the window at the passing fields and, with a flat, unemotional voice, recounted everything: Stephens jealousy, the nightly banishments, the constant fear. She hoped the seasoned roadworker might point her toward somewhere that offered honest work and shelter.

Sam listened, then said, Looks like youve got the spirit of a heroine, love. Theres a place a few miles out of town where a big firm has bought land to set up a modern greenhouse complex. Theyre hiring workers, providing accommodation.

Emmas luck finally turned. She was among the first to arrive at that place, which was more a sprawling construction site than a village. At first she and the girls stayed in a tiny flat above the cottage of an elderly lady, Mrs. Shirley, who, after hearing Emmas tale, took them in for almost nothing. Emma laboured from dawn till dusk in the glasshouses. The work was hard, but honest, and the people there valued her.

When the complex expanded and new staff houses went up, Emma got one of the first modest flats. When she received the keys, tears felltears of relief.

She never thinks of Stephen now. Those memories are old scars that only hurt when touched. She has no intention of starting new romances. Her only aim is that her daughters are fed, clothed, healthy, and happy. Thats all she needs.

Enough of it, she sometimes thinks, watching the girls play in their room. It doesnt matter any more.

The main thing is that her children now have a proper homea real home where theres no shouting, no jealous old men, and no nighttime evictions. It was worth every risk, every fight.