“If It’s Meant to Be”
“Vicky, what’s taking you so long?” said Mike when she finally rushed out of the house. They were in the same class. “We’ll be late for school.”
“Mum poured the tea too hot—nearly scalded myself,” Vera replied, laughing. “Had to wait for it to cool. Don’t worry, we won’t be late. It’s just down the road.”
Mike and Vera were next-door neighbours, separated only by a garden fence. Their parents got on well and sometimes joked about the pair marrying one day—they’d been close since childhood.
Mike was the only son of Helen and John. His mother doted on him, convinced he was the cleverest, handsomest, most respectful lad, and truth be told, he’d grown up just so. Vera was quiet and modest but clever with her hands—already sewing and knitting by secondary school, even cooking meals while her mum was at work. She’d learned a lot from her.
“Our Mike ought to marry that Vera,” Helen would say matter-of-factly to her husband.
“Aye, and we could knock down the fence—live as one house,” John would joke.
The whole village assumed it would happen—Mike and Vera would marry. They were always together. Mike liked Vera, but not madly—just solid friendship. Vera, though, sometimes glanced at him with hope.
Then in Year 11, a new girl arrived—Marianne. Mike fell for her instantly—a striking brunette with a dimpled chin and sad eyes.
Marianne and her mum, Theresa, had moved from the city. The sadness in Marianne’s eyes came from losing her father. He’d drowned rescuing a neighbour’s boy from the river—pushed the lad to safety but couldn’t save himself. Later, they said his heart gave out.
After the funeral, Marianne couldn’t bear to look at the boy next door. The thought wouldn’t leave her.
“Mum, I miss Dad so much it hurts to breathe sometimes,” she whispered. “And I can’t even look at that…” She never said his name.
Theresa decided to leave. The city held too many memories. She rented out their flat, found a cottage in the village, and moved far from the pain.
Vera befriended Marianne, pitying her when she learned the truth. She saw Mike’s feelings for the new girl but held no grudge.
Time passed. Mike and Marianne became a couple, much to Helen’s dismay.
“Mike, it’s cruel to lead Vera on. You’ve been together since you were kids, and now this city girl turns your head? Vera’d make a proper wife. Who even is this Marianne? Bet she can’t boil an egg.”
“Mum, you don’t know her. And Vera knows I never promised her anything—that was your idea.”
John stayed quiet, but when Helen nagged, he stepped in:
“Leave the lad be. He’ll choose his own wife—it’s his life.”
“His life? He’ll ruin it with that outsider! You talk like he’s no son of yours. Your mother’s put this in your head.”
John was tired of the feud between his mum and Helen. She’d never accepted Theresa, and neither woman would back down. His mum had even once muttered that Mike didn’t look like him. So he kept out of it—didn’t want the blame again.
After school, Mike and Marianne decided to marry. His dad warned against rushing, but Mike snapped.
“Dad, just let me be. We love each other—I’ve thought it through. I’ll only be happy with her.”
He knew better than to argue with his mum. They signed the papers quietly and returned man and wife, leaving everyone stunned.
Helen erupted.
“That girl’s not setting foot in my house—” and worse.
Mike packed his things and moved in with Theresa. He got on well with her, but cut ties with his parents—didn’t even invite them to his army send-off.
“Mick, I’ll come for your oath-taking,” Marianne promised. He grinned—he adored her.
She kept her word, travelling to his base—not far, just the next county over.
“Mick, I’m pregnant,” she whispered then.
He was overjoyed, even writing his parents the news. They never replied. When their son was born, Marianne was hurt—her mother-in-law still shut her out. She avoided Helen’s house altogether.
Time passed. Michael returned from the army. On the way home, he stopped at his parents’ first—Theresa lived at the other end of the village. He missed them, hoped they did too.
“Oh, my boy!” Helen fawned. “Come, sit—your dad’s at work.”
She poured him whisky, then another. Michael never drank, but too tired to refuse, he gulped it down. Seeing him tipsy, Helen struck.
“That boy’s not yours, son. She tricked you. Soon as you left, some young lad visited Theresa’s. The village said he was her cousin—I don’t buy it. Stayed days, he did.”
“Mum, what rubbish,” Michael growled.
“People say the boy looks nothing like you—just like that visitor.”
Sober, he’d never have believed her. But drunk and furious, he stormed to the cabinet, grabbed his dad’s shotgun, and bolted out.
Helen ran after, horrified at what she’d stirred. Bursting into Theresa’s, she found Michael aiming at Marianne and their son, Theresa shielding them.
Helen shoved him—the gun clicked, unloaded. Everyone exhaled.
“Mick, don’t!” Helen wailed, clinging to his arm. “Don’t throw your life away for that liar!”
Theresa hurled them out and bolted the door. Michael pounded it, raging, until Helen dragged him home.
“Why’d she do it, Mum? Why?” he slurred.
Theresa soothed Marianne inside.
“Hush, love. We’ll leave—today. Helen won’t let us live in peace. Mick’s a good lad, but his mother’s a viper. Those lies have poisoned him.”
Marianne wept but knew her mum was right—she feared for little Alex. They left that day, telling no one where.
Helen, though, was pleased. She’d planned this—turn her son against his wife. The gun scared her, but it worked. She threw a welcome-home party, inviting the village.
Only two neighbours came. The guest of honour was passed out by the shop. She hauled him home.
Vera stayed away too, though Helen had begged her first. Meeting later, she pressed:
“Vera, must I spell it out? Mick’s heart’s broken—comfort him, and he’ll be yours. That girl’s gone.”
Helen didn’t get why Vera refused.
“Aunt Helen, d’you really think I’d stoop so low?”
“Low how?”
“You lied about Marianne—you know it. You stole Mick’s son, your own grandson. Think he’ll ever forgive you?”
Helen paled. She hadn’t thought that far—just wanted the girl gone. Even John and her own mum had begged her to let Mick live his life.
Michael drank himself senseless. A week later, his mate Paul pulled him up short.
“Enough, Mick. You’ve made a right mess with your mum.”
“I’m broken, Paul,” Michael mumbled. “She cheated—tried passing off some other man’s kid…”
Paul clenched his fist but didn’t swing.
“If you weren’t my mate… Marianne waited faithful, that lad was Theresa’s nephew—fixed their fence, put in a window. Your mum even begged me to write you lies about her. I refused—she screeched at me for that.”
“Paul… you serious?”
“Swear on my life.”
Michael stormed home dark-faced.
“Dad… you knew Mum lied.” His father looked away. “I’ll never forgive you. Don’t come near me again.”
He packed up and moved back to Theresa’s. His mum came knocking—he ignored her. He quit drinking, drove a van dawn till dusk, burying himself in work.
Time passed. One day, he bumped into Vera.
“Hey, Mick. I’m marrying Paul.”
“Congrats—he’s a good bloke. I’ll be at the wedding.”
“Mick… go to Pinehurst,” she said softly.
“Why?”
“Marianne’s there. Apologise—she never wronged you… You and your mum hurt her deep. Maybe she’ll forgive you.”
His heart lurched.
“She’s really there? Cheers, Vera.” He floored the accelerator.
Theresa was in the yard when his van screeched up. She sank onto the step, clutching little Alex. Marianne ran out.
Michael dropped to his knees, clutching his chest. Marianne rushed over—
“Does it hurt? Your heart?”
“Marianne, I’ll die without you and our boy,” he whispered, eyes brimming. “Forgive me.”
They never returnedTears streaming down her face, Marianne pulled him to his feet and into her arms, whispering, “We’ve lost enough time already.”
