Oh, you won’t believe how this one played out!
“Hello, Seraphina. How’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in ages. Your daughter still not married?” An old friend stopped her outside the shop.
“Cheers, and keep your nose out of it, won’t you? Got a groom lined up, have you? We’re not just taking anyone. My Rhiannon’s got class—reads proper books, she does,” Seraphina shot back, not thrilled with where this was headed.
“Don’t take offense, love, but books won’t keep her warm at night. Too clever by half, that one. Keep being picky, and she’ll end up an old maid—won’t thank you for it.”
“Don’t jinx it. Or is this about your precious boy? Fancy setting him up with my girl?” Seraphina wasn’t about to let that slide.
“Oi, Seraphina, your tongue…” her friend sighed.
“Better she reads books than gallivants about clubs. Look at Tracey’s lot—daughter had a baby with no father in sight, dumped the kid on her and ran off.”
“But keeping your girl locked up like a nun isn’t right either,” the friend countered.
“Mind your own, eh? Worry about your lad—wouldn’t want him pickled in the pub all his days.” Seraphina grabbed her shopping and stomped off, muttering, “Hope I never clap eyes on you again…”
At home, Seraphina dumped the shopping on the counter and marched into Rhiannon’s room.
“Still buried in books? Even Shakespeare said too much wit brings grief,” she blurted.
“That was Austen, Mum,” Rhiannon corrected.
“What’s the difference? Pop to the shops, we’re out of milk. Or go for a walk—rotting your eyes with all that reading.”
“Mum, what’s got into you? One minute I’m not allowed out, the next you’re shoving me out the door.”
“Just sick of the gossip. I’m not against you settling down, love—but with who? There’s no decent lot about.” Seraphina waved her off and left.
Rhiannon shut her book and sighed. Her mum raised her alone. Whenever she scolded her, she’d say, “You’re just like your father.” Little Rhiannon used to beg for a photo of him.
“Oh, who knows where it’s got to. I’ll find it one day,” her mum would brush her off.
Older now, Rhiannon knew there was no photo. Likely, her dad didn’t even know she existed.
Maybe she *was* like him. Unlike her sturdy mum, Rhiannon was slight, with fine, pale hair. Light brows and lashes made her face look washed out. At sixteen, she’d borrowed a friend’s mascara before a school dance.
“Copying your mates now? That lot’ll teach you nothing good. Wash it off!” her mum shrieked.
Boys never noticed her. Plenty of prettier girls around. So when nerdy Nigel at uni asked her to the cinema, she was chuffed. He was bookish and shy, like her. One day, she invited him over while her mum was at work.
Of course, Seraphina came home early, claiming she felt poorly. They were just talking books, but her mum clutched her chest like she’d faint. Nigel bolted, and Rhiannon got an earful—swore off bringing boys home after that.
Nothing came of Nigel. Her mum decided he—some bloke from a tiny town—was only after their London flat.
“He’ll move in, and good luck kicking him out. I won’t have this flat split. I earned it.”
After uni, Rhiannon got a job at the library. Too timid for teaching.
“You’ll never meet a man there—just old biddies. Should’ve studied medicine. At least you’d have been useful. Men respect women in white coats.”
But Rhiannon hated blood. Books were safer—she lived through the characters. In her head, she’d built up a prince-like hero, like all bookish girls do. But real men? Divorced blokes old enough to be her dad, or, if someone young appeared, her mum found fault fast.
If Rhiannon protested, her mum clutched her heart and groaned.
“Rhiannon, you need to move out. You’ll never marry like this. Clock’s ticking—how old are you now?” her library boss, Mrs. Whitmore, asked over tea one day.
“Thirty-four,” Rhiannon mumbled.
“Exactly. What are you waiting for?”
“What *can* I do?”
“Leave. Before it’s too late. Live your own life.”
“But Mum’s heart—”
“Sure about that? Seems her ‘attacks’ happen when a man’s in the picture. Right?”
“No one’s ever proposed,” Rhiannon admitted.
“And they won’t, because she won’t let them.”
“She just worries. I’m all she’s got.”
“She’s smothering you. Go on holiday—I’ll handle your mum. The sea’s good for romance.”
Mrs. Whitmore helped, and Rhiannon went to Brighton. But the only attention came from middle-aged married men.
On her last evening, she sat on the beach, wishing she could stay forever.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a man’s voice said.
She looked up—handsome, a bit older.
“Mind if I join you? I’ve seen you here alone. The sea makes you think, doesn’t it? Makes you want to stay.”
“Funny—I was just thinking that,” she said.
They talked for hours, walked the shore. No wedding ring. *Maybe this is it*, she thought.
When Alex kissed her, she didn’t stop him. Under the stars, it happened.
Next morning, she left, regretting she hadn’t gotten his details.
Back home, glowing from the sun, her mum eyed her suspiciously. Mrs. Whitmore asked straight off. Rhiannon told her everything.
“You didn’t even ask where he’s from? Just a name? Oh, Rhiannon…”
When Rhiannon realized she was pregnant, she panicked.
“Have the baby. Might be your only chance.”
“But Mum—her heart! What have I done?”
“Leave it to me.”
Mrs. Whitmore had a cousin in Manchester—a journalist.
“You’re a humanities grad; she’ll help you find work. Stay with her till you sort a flat. Tell your mum it’s a career opportunity—Manchester’s no backwater. She’ll cope. Visit weekends.”
“But she’ll find out eventually!”
“By then, it’ll be too late for… other choices. Or do you want to live with her forever?”
Rhiannon dreaded telling her mum. But oddly, she let her go—with complaints, of course.
She loved the new job. Her cousin’s flat was huge, right in the city center. When she found out Rhiannon was pregnant, she refused to let her leave.
But Rhiannon ached for her mum. Called daily, visited weekends at first, then just called—hiding her growing bump.
Seraphina suspected. Turned up unannounced. Took one look at Rhiannon’s belly and exploded.
“Knew this would happen! Got yourself knocked up on holiday? When were you going to tell me? How will you manage alone?”
She ranted for hours—but no fainting. Too late for lectures now.
“Fine. I’ll help. Oh, you daft girl. Books’ll be the death of you.”
Five years later, Rhiannon stayed in Manchester. Seraphina, now retired, doted on her grandson, Alfie.
“Good it’s a boy—fewer troubles,” she’d say. Rhiannon knew what she meant.
One day, Alfie fell at the playground, splitting his brow. Blood everywhere. Rhiannon panicked, ran to her cousin, who called an ambulance.
The ER was packed, but they let her jump the queue. The doctor—masked, scribbling notes—took one look and whisked Alfie away.
When he returned, mask off, leading Alfie by the hand, Rhiannon froze. *Alex.*
“He’s a brave lad. Hardly cried. Come back in a week to remove stitches.” He didn’t recognize her.
“Should we come back to you?” she asked.
“If you like, but it’s busy here.” He glanced up. “Wait—have we met? You look familiar.”
“No, first time,” she lied.
When she returned a week later, he studied her.
“Rhiannon—rare name. Only met one before. Wait—*you*. Brighton. Why’d you leave? I looked for you.”
“You did? I had my ticket… Didn’t know how to reach you…”
He showed up at her flat a week later, with aHe stepped inside, took her hands, and said, “This time, I’m not letting you go.”
