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The Grey Mouse Is Happier Than You
Emily, honestly, are you kidding me right now? Jessica stared at her faded cotton dress with a look reserved for something in a charity shop window: use unknown, value questionable. You wear this shabby old thing? Around your husband?
Emily tugged at the hem unconsciously. The dress was so soft by now, almost comforting, after so many cycles in the wash.
I like it, she said quietly.
Typical. You like all sorts of things, chimed in Sarah, eyes glued to her phone. Staying home, cooking stews, knitting doilies. Do you realise your youth is passing you by? One day youll regret just “existing” instead of living.
Jessica nodded energetically, the gold hoops in her ears swaying like tiny pendulums with every movement.
We went to The Ivy last night on Marylebone. Gorgeous! I bet you were frying chips again?
Emily had been. With mushrooms, just the way Michael loved. Hed come home exhausted, ate two helpings, and fell asleep against her shoulder by the telly. She didnt mention any of it. Why bother? Her friends wouldn’t get it.
A lifetime ago, the three of them married months apart. Emily remembered it like yesterday: her modest registry office ceremony, then Jessicas extravagant bash with a live band and fireworks, and after that, Sarahs celebration where each guest received a handcrafted name tag in a velvet pouch. Shed seen her friends sidelong glances when she mentioned spending her honeymoon at Michaels parents’ cottage in Devon. Jessica snorted into her prosecco; Sarahs eye-roll was so dramatic it was practically audible.
The teasing became constant background noise whenever they met. Emily taught herself not to react, though some bitter ache always lingered beneath her ribs.
Jessica was one of those women who entered a room and everyone noticed. Loud laughter, big gestures, endless tales of who said what and who looked at whom. Her flat with Andrew was always full: friends, colleagues, friends-of-friends, random acquaintances, appearing and disappearing, leaving behind wine rings on pale carpets and piles of empty glasses.
Well have about fifteen on Saturday! Jessica announced down the phone. Come round! Andrews cooking steak.
Emily declined politely. Michael craved peace after his long week, not a crowd of strangers arguing over wine in their kitchen.
Hide in your little hole, then, Jessica said, with a flash of something like pity in her voice.
Andrew had played along at first, helping set the table, making jokes with the guests, tidying up after. Emily saw him during those rare visits she did attend: the tired eyes, the forced smile, movements as mechanical as clockwork. He poured wine, laughed when expected, but his gaze slid further and further away.
Andrew, why so glum? Jessica pinched his cheek in front of everyone. Smile! Or people will think Im starving you!
Andrew smiled. Everyone laughed. Emily wondered how long someone could wear a mask before it stuck, or before you wanted to rip it off, skin and all.
Ten years passed and the mask shattered. Andrew left her for a quiet woman from accounting rumour was, she brought him homemade Cornish pasties for lunch and never raised her voice. Jessica learned last, though the office had been whispering for weeks.
Hes left me, Jessica sobbed, noise and clattering echoing in the background. Ungrateful, selfish man! I gave him everything! And this is what I get!
Emily listened in silence. What was there to say? That Andrew drifted off to sleep each night to someone elses laughter, woke to someone elses chatter? That a home should be more than one long party?
After the divorce, everything unravelled. The flat was mortgaged to the hilt, the loans stacked up like bricks. Jessica was left alone to clear the wreckage, and her laughter grew quieter.
Meanwhile, Sarah built her empire of curated Instagram perfection. Her page glittered: Soho dinners, weekends in Bath, beach trips to Cornwall, all flawless makeup and captions about “gratitude” and “happiness.” Denis hovered in the background a blurred figure funding the glossy charade.
Look, Sarah shoved her phone in Emilys face. Lucys husband bought her a Tiffany necklace. What about mine? Always something daft.
Maybe he likes choosing things for you himself?
Sarahs expression was odd.
Hardly. I send him a list. Stick to the list, thats what I say.
Emily kept quiet. Yesterday, Michael brought her a book shed wanted for ages. Hed found it in a tiny shop near Paddington, wrapped it in brown paper himself. She didnt tell Sarah shed only laugh at such “poverty.”
For five years Denis kept up. Overtime, side gigs, always striving for Sarahs shifting expectations. Until he met a shop assistant in a bookshop: divorced, with a child, no manicures and no designer bags. She looked at him as though, for once, he was enough. Just as he was.
The divorce was fast, furious, ugly. Sarah demanded everything, got half by law, not by choice. By then, their savings had all gone: spa memberships, beauty treatments, endless shopping weekends. Nothing left.
How am I supposed to live? Sarah sat in a cafe, tears streaking her make-up, voice taut on the edge. On what?
Emily sipped coffee, thinking how, through all those years, Sarah never once asked about her life. How Michael was. If they were well. It was always Sarah Sarahs needs, Sarahs complaints.
Both friends ended up adrift: without husbands, without money, without the familiar comforts. Jessica started a second job to cover the debts. Sarah moved to a smaller flat and stopped uploading photos.
Emilys life continued as before. She made Michael dinner, asked about his day, listened to his stories of impossible negotiations and supplier woes. She didnt demand gifts or compare him to other men. She was simply there. Steady, like a houses foundations. Warm, like the lamp glowing in the kitchen window.
Michael noticed. Once, he came home, placed a folder of documents in front of her.
Whats this?
Half the business. Yours now.
Emily stared at the papers a long time before she found her voice.
Why?
Because youve earned it. I want you protected. None of it exists without you.
A year later, he bought a new flat light-filled, roomy, huge windows. Put it in her name. Emily sobbed into his shoulder, and Michael stroked her hair, whispering she was his treasure. His quiet harbour.
Occasionally, old friends dropped by. First rarely, then with more frequency. They admired the velvet sofa, fingered soft cushions, gazed at paintings on the walls. Emily watched their faces: puzzled, unsettled, thinly veiled envy.
How did all this happen? Jessica asked, eyes scanning the living room.
Michael gave it to me.
Just like that?
Just like that.
They exchanged glances. Emily refilled their mugs and kept silent.
One afternoon, Jessica couldnt take it any longer. She set her cup down so sharply coffee spilled onto the saucer. She blurted,
Tell me why. Why did we lose everything, and you, mousy little Emily, remain happy?
Silence thickened around the table. Sarah stared out the window, pretending not to hear, but her hands twisted an imitation silver ring a far cry from her diamond days.
Emily could have answered. She could have spoken about patience, about noticing small things, about how real happiness is built quietly, day by day. About how love is listening, paying attention, looking after each other. Giving, not demanding.
But what for? For twenty years, those women saw right through her, as if shed always been part of the wallpaper. For twenty years their advice had been Live a little! and Dont be so dull! For twenty years, they only ever heard themselves.
Maybe Im just lucky, Emily smiled.
After that, they came less often. Eventually not at all. Jealousy won out over friendship, over shared history, over reason. Easier to turn away than admit theyd got it wrong.
Emily didnt miss them. Strangely, the space they left filled up with peace as if shed finally taken off a pair of shoes a size too small and could breathe again.
Another ten years passed. Emily turned fifty-four, and life was gentle. Grown children, a grandchild, Michael still bringing her books in brown paper. From an old acquaintance, she heard Jessica never remarried, worked two jobs, grumbled about her health. Sarah dated three men in five years, each relationship ending the same way: accusations, resentment, demands.
Emily listened with no sense of triumph. She simply listened and thought sometimes, its the grey little mice who stumble quietly upon happiness. Not the noisy, showy kind, but the sort you hold tight to, invisible to the world and priceless within.
She switched off her phone and began making dinner. Michael had promised to be home early, and all he wanted tonight was fried potatoes with mushrooms.
He Hated His Wife. Hated Her… They Spent 15 Years Together, Fifteen Mornings Waking Up Side by Side—But Only in the Last Year Did Her Habits Begin to Drive Him Mad, Especially One: Stretching Out Her Arms in Bed and Sleepily Saying, “Good Morning, Sunshine! Today Will Be a Wonderful Day.” What Seemed a Simple Phrase, Her Slim Arms, Her Sleepy Face, Now Filled Him with Disgust. She’d Rise, Walk Past the Window, Gaze Out for a While, Then Slip off Her Nightdress and Head to the Bathroom. Early in Marriage, He’d Adored Her Body, Its Natural Confidence That Seemed Almost Indecent—But Now, Though She Was Still Beautiful, Her Nakedness Made Him Angry. Once, He Even Considered Pushing Her to Hurry Her Morning Routine but Only Managed a Gruff: “Get a Move On—I’ve Had Enough!” She Refused to Rush or Let His Affectionless Hostility Change Her Pace—She Knew About His Affair, Even Recognized the Young Woman He’d Been Seeing for Three Years. Time Dulles the Sharp Sting of Pride, Leaving Only a Lingering Sense of Uselessness. She Forgave Him—the Aggression, the Neglect, His Need to Relive His Youth—But She Wouldn’t Let Him Rob Her of Living Mindfully, Cherishing Each Moment. She’d Made Up Her Mind When She Learned She Was Ill. The Disease Was Slowly Consuming Her; It Would Win Soon. Her First Urge Was to Confess to Everyone—To Lessen the Brutal Truth by Sharing the Burden with Loved Ones. Yet She Endured the Hardest Day Alone, Accepting Her Fate, and Then Resolved to Remain Silent. Life Slipped Away, Yet Each Day She Gained the Wisdom of a True Observer. She Found Solace in a Quiet English Countryside Library, a Ninety-Minute Walk Each Way. Every Day, She’d Hide in the Narrow Aisles Marked “Life & Death’s Secrets” by the Elderly Librarian and Lose Herself in Books She Hoped Contained Every Answer. He’d Go to His Lover’s Flat, Where Everything Felt Warm, Bright, Familiar. Their Love Affair Had Grown Wild—Three Years of Passion, Jealousy, Heartache, and Asphyxiating Desire. Today He Came With a Decision: Divorce. Why Torment All Three of Them? He Didn’t Love His Wife—No, He Hated Her—and Here, He Could Start Fresh, Find Happiness. He Tried to Recall His Feelings for His Wife, but There Was Nothing—He Couldn’t Even Remember Caring for Her on That First Day. He Pulled Out a Photo of Her from His Wallet, Tore It Into Pieces—Determined to End It. They Arranged to Meet at the Restaurant Where, Six Months Earlier, They’d Celebrated Fifteen Years as Husband and Wife. She Arrived First. He Stopped Home to Find the Divorce Papers, Ransacking Drawers in a Panic Until He Spotted a Dark Blue Folder He’d Never Seen Before. He Ripped Off the Seal, Expecting Dirty Secrets—But Found Only Medical Reports, Official Documents. His Wife’s Name on Every Page. Realisation Struck Like Lightning; She Was Ill. He Googled the Diagnosis: “6–18 Months Life Expectancy.” Six Months Had Already Passed. He Remembered Little of What Happened Next—Only the Words “6–18 Months” Looping Relentlessly in His Mind. She Waited for Forty Minutes. No Answer from His Phone. She Paid the Bill and Went Outside. The Autumn Weather Was Glorious—The Sun Gentle, Comforting. “Life Is Beautiful, the World So Wonderful, So Warm.” For the First Time Since Her Diagnosis, She Felt Sorry for Herself. She’d Found the Strength to Hide Her Secret from Everyone, Sparing Them the Pain at the Cost of Her Own Crumbling Life. After This Year, She Would Be Nothing but a Memory. She Wandered Down the Street, Watching Bright Faces Filled With Hope Of Winters and Springs Yet to Come—As If the Future Were Theirs To Shape. She Would Never Know That Feeling Again. Bitterness Swelled and Burst Forth as Tears She Couldn’t Stop… He Paced the Room. For the First Time, He Felt The Swift Passage of Life as a Physical Ache. He Remembered His Wife Young, Full of Hope When They First Met—He’d Loved Her Then. In That Moment, Fifteen Years Vanished: Happiness, Youth, and Life Still Ahead. In Her Final Weeks, He Became Devoted, At Her Side Every Hour, Overcome by a Joy He’d Never Known. He Was Terrified She’d Leave—He Would Have Given His Own Life to Save Hers. Had Someone Reminded Him Of His Hatred Just a Month Ago, He’d Have Sworn: “That Wasn’t Me.” He Witnessed Her Battle to Say Goodbye, Weeping Secretly at Night When She Thought He Slept—He Understood No Punishment Was Worse Than Knowing Your Days Are Numbered. He Saw Her Fight for Every Moment, Grasping Even the Smallest Hope. She Died Two Months Later. He Covered the Path from Home to Cemetery in Flowers. He Wept Like a Child as Her Coffin Was Lowered—He Felt Centuries Older. At Home, Beneath Her Pillow, He Found a New Year’s Wish She Had Written: “To Be Happy With Him Until My Last Day.” They Say All New Year’s Wishes Come True—Perhaps They Do, For That Year He Wrote: “To Be Free.” In the End, Each Got Exactly What, It Seemed, They Had Wished For…
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