Of Course It Had to Be This 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.
“Same to you. And why the sudden interest? Got a groom in mind? We won’t settle for just anyone. My Rosie’s well-mannered, reads clever books,” Seraphina shot back, matching her tone, though not thrilled by the turn in conversation.
“Don’t take offense, but those books do little good, Seraphina. Too much learning brings sorrow. Keep being picky, and she’ll end up an old maid—won’t thank you for it.”
“Don’t jinx it. Or are you angling to palm off your own son?” Seraphina didn’t hold back.
“Oh, Seraphina. That tongue of yours…” The friend sighed.
“Better she reads books than runs about in clubs. Look at poor Nancy’s girl—had a baby with no husband, dumped the child on her mum, and vanished.”
“But keeping your daughter under your thumb isn’t right either,” the old friend countered.
“And you stick your nose into our lives? Tend to your own son before he drinks himself into the ground.” Seraphina grabbed her bags and stomped off, muttering under her breath. “Wouldn’t care if I never saw you again…”
At home, Seraphina set the groceries on the kitchen counter and marched into Rosie’s room.
“Still buried in books? Even Shakespeare said too much wisdom brings grief,” she blurted.
“That was Chaucer, not Shakespeare,” Rosie corrected.
“What’s the difference? Go fetch some milk. Or take a walk—you’re glued to those books all day, ruining your eyes.”
“Mum, what’s got into you? First, you won’t let me leave the house, now you’re pushing me out.”
“Just sick of the gossip. I want you settled, but who’s there to marry?” With a flick of her wrist, Seraphina left.
Rosie shut 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 had begged to see his photo.
“Don’t know where it’s got to. I’ll find it someday,” her mum would brush her off.
Older now, Rosie knew there was no photo. Likely, her father didn’t even know she existed.
Maybe she *did* take after him. Unlike her stout mother, Rosie was slender, with fine, fair hair. Pale brows and lashes made her face seem wan. At sixteen, she’d borrowed a friend’s mascara before the school dance.
“Copying your friends now? They’ll teach you no good. Wash it off!” her mother had shrieked.
Boys paid Rosie no mind. With so many pretty girls around, why would they? When bespectacled Nigel at university asked her to the cinema, she’d been thrilled. Like her, he was bookish and shy. One day, she invited him over while her mother was at work.
Of course, Seraphina came home early, feigning illness. They’d done nothing wrong—just talked books—but her mother clutched her chest and pretended to faint. Nigel fled, and Rosie endured such a lecture she vowed never to bring a boy home again.
Things fizzled with Nigel. Seraphina discovered he was from a small town and declared he only wanted Rosie for her London flat.
“He’ll move in, and you’ll never get rid of him. I won’t let you split this flat—I didn’t get it for nothing.”
After graduation, Rosie took a job at the library. Too timid for teaching, she found solace in books, living vicariously through their heroes. In her mind, she’d crafted a prince—like all romantics do—but real life offered divorced men or widowers old enough to be her father. And if a younger man appeared, her mother would find flaws or dark motives.
When Rosie protested, Seraphina would gasp, clutching her heart.
“You need to leave, Rosie. Or you’ll never marry. Time’s slipping by—how old are you now?” her librarian boss, Evelyn, asked over tea one day.
“Thirty-four,” Rosie admitted softly.
“There. What are you waiting for?”
“What *can* I do?”
“Move out. Before it’s too late. Live your own life,” Evelyn said firmly.
“How? Mum’s got a bad heart.”
“Has she? From what you say, her ‘attacks’ only happen when a suitor appears. Am I wrong?”
“No one’s exactly proposed,” Rosie mumbled.
“Exactly. Because she won’t allow it.”
“But she worries. I’m all she has.”
“She’s smothering you. Time to grow up.” Evelyn arranged a seaside holiday, insisting Rosie go alone.
But even there, only middle-aged men on illicit breaks glanced her way. On her last evening, watching the sunset, a voice spoke beside her.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Rosie looked up. A handsome man, slightly older, smiled down.
“Mind if I join you? I’ve noticed you—always alone. The sea makes one reflective, doesn’t it? Makes you never want to leave.”
“Funny, I was just thinking that,” Rosie admitted.
They talked for hours, strolling the shore. No wedding ring graced his finger. *Maybe this is my chance…*
When Alex kissed her under the stars, she didn’t resist.
The next morning, she left—regretting she hadn’t asked where he lived.
Back home, her mother eyed her tan suspiciously. Evelyn probed, and Rosie confessed.
“You didn’t even ask where he’s from? Just a name?” Evelyn sighed. “Rosie, really.”
When Rosie realized she was pregnant, she rushed to Evelyn.
“What do I do?”
“Have the baby. You might not get another chance.”
“But Mum—her heart—”
“Leave it to me,” Evelyn said.
Her cousin in Manchester ran a newspaper. Rosie could work there, stay with her until she found her own place.
“Tell your mum it’s a career opportunity—too good to pass up. She’ll cope.”
Rosie feared the confrontation, but to her surprise, Seraphina let her go—though not without lectures.
Rosie loved her new job. When her host, Beatrice, learned of the pregnancy, she insisted Rosie stay. But guilt gnawed at Rosie—she called her mother daily, hiding her growing belly.
Seraphina, sensing something, showed up unannounced. One glance at Rosie’s stomach and she exploded.
“Knew it’d end like this. Got yourself in trouble on holiday! How will you manage alone? Know what that’s like?”
But as the weeks passed, Seraphina softened.
“Fine. I’ll help. Silly girl—I told you those books would bring no good.”
Five years later, Rosie still lived in Manchester, though Beatrice begged her to stay. Seraphina, now retired, doted on her grandson, Alfie.
“Good it’s a boy—fewer troubles,” she’d say, and Rosie understood.
One day, Alfie fell at the playground, splitting his brow. Blood poured as Rosie, panicked, ran to Beatrice.
“Call an ambulance—he needs stitches!”
The ER was packed, but they were ushered in. A masked doctor took Alfie, returning minutes later.
“Brave lad. Bring him to your GP for a check. Stitches out in a week.”
When he removed his mask, Rosie froze. It was Alex.
He didn’t recognize her. But when she returned a week later, he studied her.
“That name—I’ve only met one Rosie. Wait—it *is* you. Why did you leave? I looked for you.”
A week later, he appeared at her door with a toy for Alfie.
“How did you find me?”
“Your address was on his file. Alfie’s my son, isn’t he?”
Rosie nodded, flustered.
“I’m not asking for anything. We just ended up at your hospital—”
Alex smiled. Years ago, his wife and daughter had died in a crash. Friends sent him to the seaside to heal.
Fate had granted Rosie her chance—first the seaside, then a son, now a husband for her and a father for Alfie.
The most important meetings seem accidental. But they happen when you least expect. Especially by the sea. And especially when Someone arranges them for lonely hearts.
