“Of Course It Had to Be This Way”
“Hello, Seraphina. How have you been? Haven’t seen you in ages. Your daughter still not married?” An old acquaintance stopped Seraphina outside the corner shop.
“And to you as well. What’s it to you, then? Got a candidate lined up? We’re not desperate, mind you. My Grace is refined, reads clever books,” Seraphina replied with equal sharpness, not thrilled by the turn in conversation.
“Don’t take offense, but books won’t put food on the table, Seraphina. Too much learning brings sorrow. Pick and choose too long, and she’ll end up a spinster—won’t thank you for it.”
“Don’t jinx us. Or is it your own boy you’re hoping to palm off?” Seraphina shot back.
“Oh, Seraphina. That tongue of yours…” the friend sighed.
“Better her nose in books than out clubbing. Look at your Antonia—daughter had a baby out of wedlock, dumped it on her poor mother and vanished!”
“Still, keeping your girl under lock and key isn’t right either,” the old friend parried.
“Oh, meddle in our lives, will you? Tell you what, worry about your own lad—last I heard, he’s halfway to drowning himself in drink.” Snatching up her bags, Seraphina stalked off, muttering under her breath. “May I never set eyes on you again…”
At home, Seraphina set her groceries on the kitchen counter and stepped into Grace’s room.
“Still reading, are you? Even Shakespeare said too much wit brings only grief,” she snapped.
“Shakespeare? You mean Chaucer,” Grace corrected.
“What’s the difference? Go fetch some milk—there’s none left. Or take a walk, sitting here day in, day out with these books, ruining your eyes!”
“Mum, what’s got into you? You won’t let me out one minute, then shove me out the next!”
“Tired of the gossip, that’s all. I’m not against you settling down, love—but with whom? The pickings are slim!” Waving a hand, Seraphina retreated.
Grace shut her book and sighed. Raised alone by her mother, scolded for things she supposedly inherited from her absent father. Little Grace had begged for a photo once.
“Lost it somewhere, I’ll find it,” her mother dismissed.
Older now, Grace knew there never was a photo. Likely, her father didn’t even know she existed.
Maybe she did take after him. Unlike her stout mother, Grace was slight, with thin, pale hair. Nearly invisible lashes and brows left her face wan, forgettable. At sixteen, she’d borrowed a friend’s mascara before the school dance.
“Copying those hussies, are you? Wash it off this instant!” her mother shrieked.
Boys overlooked Grace. Plenty of pretty girls about. So when bespectacled Victor at university asked her to the cinema, she glowed. Like her, he was bookish and shy. Once, when her mother was at work, she invited him over.
Naturally, Seraphina came home early, clutching her chest as if fainting. They’d only been discussing Dostoevsky! Victor fled, and Grace endured a lecture that ensured no boy ever crossed the threshold again.
Nothing came of Victor. Seraphina deemed him a provincial climber—after Grace’s council flat, no doubt.
After graduation, Grace took a library job. Too meek for teaching.
“You’ll never find a husband there! Just lonely spinsters. Should’ve studied medicine—could’ve treated me, at least! Men respect a woman in white.”
But Grace loathed medicine. Books were different. Their heroes loved, suffered, lived. In her mind, a prince emerged—as all romantics dream. Yet real men were widowers, divorcees, or, if young, immediately suspect in her mother’s eyes.
Rebellion brought Seraphina’s hand to her heart, her eyes rolling back.
“You ought to leave, Grace. Else you’ll never marry. Time’s slipping—how old are you now?” the head librarian, Beatrice, asked over tea.
“Thirty-four,” Grace murmured.
“There you are. What are you waiting for?”
“What can I do?”
“Move out. Before it’s too late.”
“But Mum’s heart—”
“Are you sure? Seems to flare up whenever a suitor appears. True?”
Grace flushed. “No one’s ever…”
“And none will, while she smothers you. Visit the seaside. I’ll arrange leave. Let her fume. The sea, you know… it stirs romance.”
Grace went, though only aging roués noticed her. On her last evening, a voice spoke beside her as she watched the sunset.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
A pleasant-faced man sat beside her. “Mind if I join? I’ve seen you here alone. The sea invites solitude, don’t you think? Almost makes one want to stay forever.”
“Odd—I just thought the same,” Grace admitted.
They talked. Walked the shore till dark, found common ground in books and films. No wedding ring on his finger. *My chance…*
When Alistair kissed her under the stars, she didn’t resist. By morning, she was gone—no address exchanged.
At home, Seraphina eyed her tan suspiciously. Beatrice pried the truth loose.
“Didn’t even ask where he’s from? Good Lord, Grace.”
When Grace realized she was pregnant, Beatrice was ready.
“You’ll have it. May be your only chance.”
“But Mum—her heart!”
“Leave it to me.”
An aunt in London, a journalist, needed a proofreader. Grace could stay with her. “Tell your mother it’s an offer too good to refuse. She’ll survive.”
Grace feared the confrontation, but Seraphina relented—after ample scolding.
In London, Grace thrived. When her host, Agnes, learned of the pregnancy, she insisted Grace stay. The flat, grand with high ceilings and echoing stairs, became home.
Seraphina’s unexpected visit revealed Grace’s rounded belly.
“I knew it! A holiday fling? When were you planning to tell me? Know what it’s like, raising a child alone?”
But in time, Seraphina softened.
Five years passed. Grace had her own flat, though Agnes protested. Seraphina, retired, doted on grandson Alfie each summer.
“Better a boy—fewer troubles,” Seraphina often said. Grace understood.
One day, Alfie split his brow on the playground. Blood everywhere. Grace panicked, raced to Agnes.
“An ambulance—he needs stitches!”
The ER was packed, but Alfie’s wound won passage to a treatment room.
“Please, he’s in pain,” Grace begged a mother ahead.
Inside, a masked doctor glanced up. “Wait here.”
When he returned, mask off, leading Alfie, Grace froze. *Alistair.*
“He’s a brave lad. Stitches out in a week—your GP can do it.”
“Could we… come back to you?” Grace asked.
“If you like.” He paused. “Have we met? Your face seems familiar.”
Grace looked down. “No, never.”
A week later, recognition struck.
“Grace—that’s rare. I’ve only met one. Wait… the seaside! Why did you leave? I looked for you.”
“You did?”
He visited, bearing gifts for Alfie.
“How did you find me?”
“Your address was on the form. Alfie’s mine, isn’t he?”
Grace faltered. “But we don’t need—”
Alistair smiled. Years prior, his wife and daughter had died in a crash. Friends sent him south to heal.
Fate had relented—first the seaside, then Alfie, now this: a husband, a father.
The best meetings happen as if by chance. But they happen—if one waits. The sea arranges such things. Or perhaps Someone does, for lonely souls with tangled fates.
