**Could It Be Any Other Way?**
“Hello, Seraphina. How are you? Long time no see. Your daughter still not married, then?” an old acquaintance stopped her by the shop, eyebrow arched knowingly.
“Must you ask? Got a candidate lined up? We’re not just taking anyone, you know. My Rosie’s refined, reads clever books,” Seraphina quipped back, not exactly thrilled by the turn of conversation.
“Don’t take offence, Seraphina, but books won’t keep her warm at night. Too much brain can be a curse. Pick too long, and she’ll end up a spinster—won’t thank you for that.”
“Don’t jinx it. Or is this just your way of pushing your own son onto her?” Seraphina shot back.
“Honestly, Seraphina. That mouth of yours…” the friend sighed dramatically.
“Better books than nightclubs. Look at Angela’s girl—had a baby with no husband in sight, dumped the child on her poor mother, and vanished!”
“But keeping your daughter under lock and key isn’t right either,” the friend countered.
“Oh, sod off with your advice—worry about your own lad before he drinks himself into an early grave,” Seraphina huffed, grabbing her bags and stomping off, muttering, “Might’ve known I’d run into you…”
At home, Seraphina dumped the shopping on the kitchen counter and marched into Rosie’s room.
“Still buried in books? Even Shakespeare said too much wit brings sorrow,” she declared.
“That was *Hamlet*, Mum,” Rosie corrected without looking up.
“What’s the difference? Go fetch some milk—we’re out. Or take a walk, for heaven’s sake. You’ll ruin your eyes.”
“Mum, what’s got into you? One minute you won’t let me out, the next you’re shoving me out the door.”
“Just tired of the chatter. Look, I’m not against you settling down—but who’s worthy these days?” Seraphina waved a hand and left.
Rosie shut her book and sighed. Her mum had raised her alone. Whenever they argued, Seraphina would snap, “You’re just like your father.” Little Rosie once begged to see his photo.
“Oh, who knows where it’s got to. I’ll find it someday,” her mum had brushed her off. Later, Rosie realised—there was no photo. Maybe her father didn’t even know she existed.
Was she like him, then? Unlike stout Seraphina, Rosie was slight, with wispy blonde hair. Fair brows and lashes left her face pale, almost ghostly. At sixteen, she’d borrowed a friend’s mascara before the school dance.
“Copying your tarty friends? Wash it off *now*!” Seraphina had shrieked.
Boys never noticed Rosie. Then at uni, bespectacled Nigel asked her to the cinema. He was shy, well-read—like her. One day, she invited him over while her mum was at work.
Naturally, Seraphina came home early, clutching her chest like a doomed Victorian heroine. They’d only been discussing Dickens! Nigel fled, and Rosie endured a lecture that left her swearing off future suitors.
Nigel didn’t last. Seraphina discovered he was from Hull and decreed he only wanted their London flat.
“Get him registered here, and we’ll never be rid of him. I didn’t scrap for this flat just to hand it over!”
After uni, Rosie worked at the library—too meek for teaching.
“You’ll *never* meet a man there. Should’ve studied medicine—at least then you’d attract a doctor,” Seraphina grumbled.
But Rosie loathed hospitals. Books were safer. Between pages, she lived a thousand lives. Yet real-life heroes never appeared—only divorced men old enough to be her father. The rare young admirer? Seraphina sniffed out flaws or ulterior motives.
If Rosie protested, her mum clutched her pearls. “You’ll *kill* me!”
“You ought to move out, Rosie. How else will you marry? Time’s ticking—how old *are* you now?” her boss, Margaret, asked over tea.
“Thirty-four,” Rosie mumbled.
“Exactly. What are you waiting for?”
“What can I *do*?”
“Leave. Before it’s too late.”
“But her heart—”
“—only acts up when a man’s involved. Am I wrong?”
Rosie flushed. “…No one’s proposed.”
“Exactly. Because she won’t let them.”
Margaret arranged a seaside holiday. “Go. *Breathe*.”
But at the resort, only middle-aged lotharios eyed Rosie. On her last evening, she watched the sunset, aching to stay forever.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” a man said beside her.
Alex was handsome, slightly older. They talked for hours—books, films, the sea’s quiet magic. No wedding ring. *Maybe this is it*, Rosie thought. When he kissed her under the stars, she didn’t resist.
Next morning, she left without a word.
Back home, Seraphina eyed her tan suspiciously. Margaret pounced: “Well? Any luck?”
Rosie confessed.
“You didn’t even get his *number*? Good grief.”
Then Rosie missed her period.
“What do I *do*?”
“Have it. This might be your only chance.”
“But *Mum*—”
Margaret hatched a plan. Her cousin ran a paper in Edinburgh. “Stay with her. Say it’s a career opportunity. Visit weekends. By the time Seraphina finds out, it’ll be too late for lectures.”
Rosie trembled telling Seraphina—who, shockingly, let her go (with guilt trips, of course).
Edinburgh charmed her. Margaret’s cousin, Beatrice, let her stay. When Rosie’s bump grew obvious, Beatrice refused to let her leave. “You’re family now.”
But Rosie ached for Seraphina. She called daily, hid her belly during visits—then stopped visiting entirely.
Seraphina’s instincts struck. She barged in, took one look at Rosie’s stomach, and exploded.
“Knew this would happen! Some seaside fling, was it? Do you *know* how hard it’ll be?”
But she didn’t faint. Too late for tantrums.
Five years later, Rosie had her own flat. Seraphina, now retired, doted on grandson Alfie. “Boys are easier,” she’d say pointedly.
One day, Alfie split his brow on the playground. Rosie panicked, racing to Beatrice, who called an ambulance.
The ER overflowed, but Alfie’s blood earned them mercy. The doctor—masked, cap pulled low—ushered him into surgery.
When he emerged, unmasked, Rosie’s heart stopped.
*Alex.*
“He’s a brave lad. Come back in a week for stitch removal.” He frowned. “Have we met?”
Rosie lied. But at the follow-up, he *knew*.
“You *ran*! I *looked* for you!”
A week later, he arrived at her door, bearing toys.
“How did you—?”
“Hospital records. Alfie’s mine, isn’t he?”
Rosie flinched. “We don’t want anything—”
Alex grinned. His wife and daughter had died in a crash years ago. Friends sent him to the sea to heal.
Fate, it seemed, had finally pitied Rosie—giving her the sea, a son, and now, a second chance.
The best meetings happen by accident. But they happen—if you’re waiting. And the sea? Well, it’s got a funny way of arranging things.
