“I think I just met the happiest person in the world”

Her name is Marta. I bumped into her—literally—at the corner café on a gray Tuesday morning, the kind that smells like wet cement and missed opportunities. I was late for a meeting, juggling my laptop, an overfilled coffee cup, and the weight of a dozen unresolved emails, when she collided into me with a force far too cheerful for someone her age.

“I’m so sorry!” I blurted, wiping my coat and trying to keep my frustration tucked behind clenched teeth.

But she just laughed. Not a polite chuckle, not the strained kind of laughter you offer to keep the peace—no, this was belly-deep and sun-drenched, the kind of laugh that made you forget what you’d been upset about.

“You’re fine!” she said, grinning like a kid who’d just discovered sprinkles for the first time. “The universe bumped us into each other. Probably on purpose.”

She was in her sixties, maybe seventies, wearing mismatched socks and a scarf with tiny giraffes dancing across it. There was something radiant about her—like her joy had nothing to do with circumstances and everything to do with choice.

We ended up sitting down. I missed my meeting. She ordered tea with too much honey, and I told her about my miserable job and my slowly crumbling sense of self.

“You know what your problem is?” she said, tapping her spoon on the rim of her mug.

I braced myself.

“You think life owes you something. It doesn’t. But if you look close, it leaves little gifts everywhere. You just have to decide they’re enough.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I asked what made her so happy.

“I plant daffodils in public parks without asking permission. I keep a notebook full of beautiful things people say. I talk to squirrels like they’re old friends. And when I wake up, I say, ‘Good morning, world. Let’s see what kind of weird you are today.’”

That was it. No big secret. No lottery ticket or spiritual awakening. Just an ordinary woman choosing joy like it was the only thing left on the menu.

We talked for an hour. She called herself a “joy thief”—sneaking around stealing little pieces of happiness from moments most people overlook.

She hugged me goodbye like we’d known each other for years, then walked out into the drizzle without an umbrella, spinning once in the rain before disappearing into the street crowd.

And I stood there, a little stunned. Lighter somehow.

I don’t know where she came from, or if I’ll ever see her again.

But I think I just met the happiest person in the world