“It Couldn’t Have Been Any Other Way”
“Hello, Seraphina. How are you? Haven’t seen you in ages. Your daughter still not married?” An old acquaintance stopped Seraphina outside the shop.
“Likewise. Why the sudden interest? Got a groom in mind for her? We’re not settling for just anyone. My Rosie’s well-bred, reads sophisticated books,” Seraphina shot back, matching the woman’s tone, though not thrilled by the turn of conversation.
“Don’t take offence, but books won’t do her much good, Seraphina. Too much learning can be a curse. If you keep being picky, she’ll end up an old maid—and she won’t thank you for it.”
“Don’t jinx it. Or is this your way of pushing your own son on us?” Seraphina didn’t hold back.
“Oh, Seraphina. That sharp tongue of yours…” The woman sighed.
“Better she reads books than spends her nights clubbing. Look at Toni’s girl—had a baby without a husband, dumped the child on her mother, and ran off.”
“But keeping your daughter on such a tight leash isn’t right either,” the friend countered.
“Mind your own business. Worry about your son—before he drinks himself into the grave.” Seraphina snatched her shopping bags and marched off, muttering under her breath. “Wish I’d never run into you…”
At home, Seraphina set the groceries on the kitchen counter and strode into Rosie’s room.
“Still buried in books? Even Shakespeare said too much wisdom brings sorrow,” she blurted.
“That was Byron, not Shakespeare,” Rosie corrected.
“What’s the difference? Go fetch some milk—we’re out. Or take a walk. You spend all day hunched over these books, ruining your eyes,” Seraphina grumbled.
“Mum, what’s got into you? One minute you won’t let me leave, the next you’re shoving me out.”
“Enough of all the chatter. I’m not against you settling down, love, but who’s there to marry?” Seraphina waved a hand and left.
Rosie closed her book and sighed. Her mother had raised her alone. Whenever she scolded her, she’d say Rosie took after her father. As a child, Rosie begged to see his photo.
“Oh, I don’t know where it’s got to. I’ll find it someday,” her mother would brush her off.
When she got older, Rosie realised there was no photo. Her father likely didn’t even know she existed.
Maybe she *did* take after him. Unlike her sturdy mother, Rosie was slight, with fine, pale hair. Her fair brows and lashes left her face wan and plain. In Year Eleven, she borrowed a friend’s mascara before the school dance.
“Copying your friends now? They’ll teach you no good. Wash it off at once!” her mother shrieked when she noticed.
Boys paid Rosie little mind. With so many prettier girls around, she was thrilled when bespectacled Edward from uni asked her to the cinema. Bookish and shy, just like her. Once, she invited him over while her mother was at work.
Of course, Seraphina came home early, claiming she felt unwell. They hadn’t been doing anything wrong—just discussing books—but her mother clutched her chest and pretended to faint. Edward bolted, and Rosie endured a lecture that convinced her never to bring a boy home again.
Things fizzled out with Edward. Her mother decided he—a lad from a small town—was only after their London flat.
“He’ll move in, and we’ll never get rid of him. I won’t split this flat—I didn’t get it for nothing.”
After uni, Rosie landed a job at the library. Teaching wasn’t for her—too timid, too meek.
“You’ll never meet a husband there. Only women visit libraries. I told you to study medicine. At least then you’d have been useful—men respect women in white coats.”
But Rosie feared medicine. Books were different. In them, she lived a thousand lives, loved, suffered. She dreamt of a dashing hero, like all romantics do. Yet in reality, only divorced men or widowers twice her age glanced her way. And if a younger man appeared, her mother found flaws or ulterior motives.
If Rosie protested, her mother gasped, pressed a hand to her heart, and rolled her eyes.
“Rosie, you need to move out. You’ll never marry otherwise. Time’s slipping away—you should be starting a family. How old are you now?” the head librarian, Evelyn, asked over tea one day.
“Thirty-four,” Rosie murmured.
“Exactly. What are you waiting for?”
“What *can* I do?” Rosie asked weakly.
“Leave. Before it’s too late. Live your own life,” Evelyn said firmly.
“How? Mum’s heart is frail.”
“Are you sure? From what you’ve said, her ‘attacks’ only happen when a suitor appears. Am I wrong?”
“No one’s ever courted me,” Rosie admitted, flushing.
“Exactly—because she won’t allow it.”
“But she worries. I’m all she has.”
“She’s smothering you. It’s time to grow up. Take a holiday—I’ll arrange it. I’ll handle your mother. And don’t waste the chance. The seaside, you know, stirs romance.”
With Evelyn’s help, Rosie went to Cornwall. Yet no one glanced her way except middle-aged flirters dodging their wives.
On her last evening, she sat on the beach, marvelling at the sunset, wishing she could stay forever.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a man’s voice said.
She looked up. A handsome man, slightly older, stood there.
“May I?” He sat beside her on the rocks. “I’ve noticed you. Always alone. The sea invites solitude, doesn’t it? Makes you want to stay.”
“Odd—I was just thinking that,” Rosie said shyly.
“Really? We think alike.”
They talked for hours, strolling the shore, savouring the salty breeze. They shared tastes in books and films. No wedding ring on his finger. *Maybe this is my chance*, Rosie thought.
When Andrew kissed her, she didn’t pull away. Under the stars, by the whispering waves, it happened.
The next morning, she left—regretting she hadn’t asked where he lived, hadn’t left her address.
Back home, tanned and refreshed, her mother eyed her suspiciously. Evelyn, however, asked straight away. Rosie confessed.
“You didn’t even ask where he’s from? Only a name? Rosie, really.”
When Rosie realised she was pregnant, she rushed to Evelyn.
“What do I do?”
“Have the baby. You may not get another chance.”
“But Mum—her heart—what have I done?”
“Leave it to me,” Evelyn said.
She had a plan. Her cousin in Manchester worked at a newspaper.
“You’ve a degree in English—she’ll help you find work. Sort a flat later. Stay with Beatrice first—she’s alone with her son. Tell your mum it’s a career opportunity too good to refuse. Manchester’s no backwater. She’ll be fine—you can visit weekends.”
“But she’ll find out eventually. She’ll kill me.”
“She’ll find out when it’s too late for regrets. Or do you want to live with her forever?”
Terrified, Rosie broke the news. Surprisingly, her mother let her go—not without scolding, of course.
Rosie loved her new job. Beatrice’s flat—spacious, central, with high ceilings—felt like a dream. When Beatrice learnt of the pregnancy, she insisted Rosie stay.
Yet Rosie fretted over her mother, calling daily. At first, she visited weekends. Then, claiming costs and workload, she only phoned, hiding her growing bump.
Seraphina sensed something—mother’s intuition. She showed up unannounced.
“I knew it. Got yourself knocked up on holiday? And when were you going to tell me? How will you manage alone? Don’t you know how hard it is?” Seraphina ranted.
She fumed but never clutched her chest. Too late for dramatics now.
“Fine. I’ll help. Oh, you silly girl. I told you books would bring trouble.”
Five years passed.
Rosie still lived in Manchester, though Beatrice urged her to stay. Retired, Seraphina doted on her grandson, Jamie—a bright, charming boy.
“Glad he’s a lad—fewer troubles,” Seraphina often said. Rosie understood.
One day, Jamie fell at the playground, splitting his brow. Blood poured as he wailed. Panicked, Rosie scooped him up and ran to Beatrice.
“Call an ambulance—he needs stitches,” Beatrice said, dialling.
The ER was packed, but Jamie’s bleeding got them seen first.
“Please, he’s hurt badly,” Rosie begged a mother with a teenThe young doctor who stitched Jamie’s brow looked up from his notes—and Rosie’s heart skipped a beat as Andrew’s eyes met hers at last, sealing the happy ending she’d stopped daring to hope for.
