**A Twist of Fate**
“Good afternoon, Seraphina. How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages. Has your daughter not married yet?” an old acquaintance stopped her outside the shop.
“Same to you. Why the sudden interest? Have you got a groom in mind? We won’t settle for just anyone. My Rhiannon’s well-bred, reads proper books,” Seraphina replied, matching her tone, though not at all pleased with the turn of conversation.
“Don’t take it personally, but books won’t do her much good, Seraphina. Too much wit brings sorrow. If you keep being picky, she’ll end up a spinster—and won’t thank you for it.”
“Don’t jinx it. Or is this about your own son, then?” Seraphina shot back.
“Oh, Seraphina. That sharp tongue of yours…” the woman sighed.
“Better she reads than wastes her time in pubs. Look at poor Angela—her daughter had a baby without a husband, dumped the child on her, and vanished.”
“But keeping your girl under lock and key isn’t right either,” the old friend countered.
“Stick to minding your own affairs. Keep an eye on your son—wouldn’t want him to drink himself to ruin.” Seraphina snatched up her bags and walked off, muttering, “Hope I never see you again…”
At home, she set the groceries on the kitchen counter and marched into Rhiannon’s room.
“Still buried in books? Even Shakespeare said too much learning breeds misery,” she blurted.
“That was *Twelfth Night*, not Shakespeare,” Rhiannon corrected.
“What difference does it make? Go to the shop—we’re out of milk. Or take a walk. You’re ruining your eyes, cooped up here all day.”
“Mum, what’s got into you? You won’t let me leave, then you chase me out!”
“Just sick of the gossip. I’m not against you settling down, but with whom?” Seraphina waved her off and left.
Rhiannon shut her book and sighed. Her mother had raised her alone. Whenever scolded, she’d snap that Rhiannon took after her father. As a child, she’d begged for a photo of him.
“Oh, I’ve no idea where it is. Lost somewhere. I’ll find it one day,” her mother would dismiss.
Older now, Rhiannon knew there was no photo. Likely, her father didn’t even know she existed.
Maybe she *was* like him. Unlike her stout mother, Rhiannon was slender, with fine, mousy hair. Pale brows and lashes left her face wan, forgettable. In sixth form, she’d borrowed her 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 her no mind—there were prettier girls. So when bookish Neville at uni asked her to the cinema, she’d been thrilled. He was shy, well-read, like her. Once, she’d invited him over while her mother was at work.
Of course, Seraphina came home early, clutching her chest and feigning a swoon. They’d only been talking books, but Neville fled, and Rhiannon endured a lecture that left her swearing off ever bringing a boy home again.
Things fizzled with Neville. Her mother learned he was from a small town and declared he only wanted their London flat and residency.
“He’ll get his name on the lease, then we’ll never be rid of him. I won’t split this flat—I earned it.”
After uni, Rhiannon took a librarian’s job. Teaching required more spine than she had.
“You’ll never meet a husband there. Only women visit libraries. I told you to study medicine—you could’ve treated me, at least. Men respect women in white coats.”
But Rhiannon loathed medicine. Books were different. In them, she lived a thousand lives, loved and suffered. She’d fashioned a prince from her novels, though none appeared in real life. The few men she met were divorced or widowed, old enough to be her father. If someone young lingered, her mother found fault at once.
If Rhiannon protested, her mother clutched her heart, eyes rolling back.
“Rhiannon, you must move out, or you’ll never marry. Time’s slipping—how old are you now?” her boss, Beatrice Whitmore, asked over tea.
“Thirty-four,” she murmured.
“There. What are you waiting for?”
“What should I do?”
“Leave. Before it’s too late. Live your own life.”
“How? Mum’s heart…”
“Are you sure? From what you’ve said, her ‘attacks’ only happen when a suitor appears. True?”
“No one’s ever proposed,” Rhiannon admitted.
“Precisely—because she won’t allow it.”
“But she worries. I’m all she has.”
“She’s smothering you. It’s time to live for yourself. Take a holiday. I’ll arrange it—and handle your mother. The seaside stirs romance.”
Beatrice helped, and Rhiannon went. Yet no one glanced her way except married men seeking dalliances.
On her last evening, she watched the sunset, longing to stay forever.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a man’s voice said.
She looked up—a handsome man, slightly older, smiled down.
“Mind if I join you?” He sat beside her. “I’ve noticed you—always alone. The sea invites solitude, doesn’t it? Makes one wish to never leave.”
“Odd—I was just thinking that,” she admitted.
They talked for hours, strolling the shore. No wedding ring glinted on his finger. *Perhaps my chance…* she thought.
When Alexander kissed her, she didn’t resist. Under the stars, fate took its course.
The next morning, she left—regretting she hadn’t asked where he lived.
At home, her mother eyed her suspiciously. Beatrice prodded for details.
“You didn’t even learn where he’s from? Just a name? Good heavens, Rhiannon.”
When she realized she was pregnant, she confided in Beatrice.
“What do I do?”
“Keep it. You may not get another chance.”
“But Mum—her heart! What have I done?”
“Leave it to me,” Beatrice said.
She arranged everything. Her cousin in Edinburgh ran a newspaper.
“You’re a linguist—she’ll find you work. Stay with Agatha first; she’s alone with her son. Tell your mother it’s a brilliant opportunity—Edinburgh’s no backwater. She’ll survive. Visit on weekends.”
“But she’ll find out eventually—she’ll disown me!”
“By then, it’ll be too late for objections. Or would you rather grow old with her?”
To Rhiannon’s surprise, her mother let her go—though not without complaints.
She loved her new job. Agatha, as kind as Beatrice, insisted she stay when her pregnancy showed.
But guilt gnawed at her. She called her mother daily, visited weekends—until travel grew costly. She hid her swelling belly, dreading the truth.
Seraphina’s instincts proved sharp. She arrived unannounced—and saw the bump.
“I *knew* this would happen! Got yourself knocked up on holiday? When were you going to tell me? Do you know how hard single motherhood is?” She ranted for hours—but didn’t clutch her chest. It was too late for dramatics.
“Fine, I’ll help. Oh, you silly girl. I *told* you books would ruin you.”
Five years passed. Rhiannon thrived in Edinburgh, renting her own flat despite Agatha’s pleas to stay. Seraphina, retired, doted on her grandson, Oliver.
“Lucky he’s a boy—fewer troubles,” she often said. Rhiannon understood.
One day, Oliver split his brow on the playground. Blood gushed; Rhiannon panicked, rushing to Agatha.
“Call an ambulance—he needs stitches!”
The ER was crowded, but Oliver’s bleeding won them priority. A masked doctor scribbled notes.
“Doctor, please—he’s hurt!”
He whisked Oliver away. When he returned, unmasked, Rhiannon froze—*Alexander.*
“He’s brave—hardly cried. See your GP tomorrow; stitches out in a week.” He didn’t recognize her.
“Should we return to you?”
“If you like, but it’s always busy.” He glanced up. “Wait—have we met? You seem familiar.”
“No, first time.” She looked away.
A week later, as he removed the stitches, he studied her.
“Rhiannon—such a rare name. I’ve only met one… *Wait.* The seaside—you vanished!”
“You… looked for me?”
A week later, he appeared at her door with a toy for Oliver.
“How did youHe took her hand and smiled, saying, “It’s time we became a proper family.” .
