**No Other Way**
“Hello, Seraphina. How’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in ages. Still no husband for that daughter of yours?” An old acquaintance stopped her outside the shop, her tone dripping with false concern.
“And good health to you too,” Seraphina shot back, forcing a smile. “Why the sudden interest? Got a candidate in mind? My Rose isn’t just anyone, you know. She’s well-bred, reads proper books.”
“Don’t take it wrong, love, but books won’t keep her warm at night,” the woman sniffed. “Too much learning leads to sorrow. Mark my words, keep being picky, and she’ll end up a spinster—blaming you for it.”
“Spare me the doom-talk. Or is this about that son of yours? Hoping to palm him off on someone?” Seraphina’s smile turned brittle.
“Oh, Seraphina. That tongue of yours…” the woman sighed, shaking her head.
“Better books than clubbing. Look at poor Margaret’s girl—had a baby out of wedlock, dumped it on her mum, then vanished.”
“But you keep your Rose locked up like a nun. That’s no way to live either.”
“Stick to minding your own. Last I heard, your lad wasn’t far off drowning himself in drink.” Seraphina snatched her bags and stalked off, muttering. “God spare me nosy old bats…”
At home, Seraphina dumped the shopping in the kitchen and marched into Rose’s room.
“Still buried in those books? Shakespeare himself said too much wit leads to misery.”
“That was *Hamlet*, Mum,” Rose corrected softly, not looking up.
“What’s the difference? Go fetch some milk. Or take a walk—rotting your eyes in here.”
“What’s got into you? One minute, you won’t let me out; the next, you’re shoving me out the door.”
“Tired of the gossip, that’s all. I want you settled, but who’s worthy, eh?” She waved a hand and left.
Rose shut her book. Mum had raised her alone. Whenever she scolded her, she’d snap, “Just like your father.” Little Rose once begged to see his photo.
“Lost it somewhere. I’ll find it.” But she never did.
Older now, Rose knew there’d never been a photo. Likely, the man didn’t even know she existed.
Maybe she *was* like him. Unlike Seraphina’s sturdy frame, Rose was slight, with pale, wispy hair. Nearly invisible brows and lashes left her face washed out. At sixteen, she’d borrowed a friend’s mascara before the school dance.
“Copying silly girls now? Wash it off!” Mum had shrieked.
Boys never noticed her. Plenty of prettier girls around. So when bespectacled Nigel from uni asked her to the cinema, she’d been thrilled. Quiet, bookish—like her. Once, she invited him over while Mum was at work.
Of course, Seraphina came home early, clutching her chest in faux distress. They’d only been talking books, but Nigel fled like the house was on fire. After that, Rose never dared bring anyone home again.
Nigel fizzled out. Mum decided he was after their flat—a Londoner’s obsession with postcodes.
“Mark my words, he’ll squat here. I’m not splitting this flat for anyone.”
Rose took a job at the library after uni. Too meek for teaching.
“You’ll never meet a man there. Just dusty old ladies. Should’ve studied medicine. At least then you’d be useful.”
But Rose loathed medicine. Books were safer—lives lived in pages, far from Seraphina’s grip. She dreamed of dashing heroes, but real men were divorced, widowed, or, if young, swiftly torn apart by Mum’s scrutiny.
Any rebellion ended with Seraphina gasping, hand on heart.
“You need to leave, Rose. Or you’ll die an old maid.” Mrs. Whitaker, the head librarian, sighed over tea. “How old are you now?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Exactly. What are you waiting for?”
“What choice do I have?”
“Move out. Before it’s too late.”
“I can’t. Her heart—”
“Does it *actually* fail, or just when a suitor appears?”
Rose flushed. “She’s all I’ve got.”
“She’s suffocating you. Go to Brighton. Take holiday. I’ll handle your mother.”
Brighton brought no romance—just middle-aged lotharios. On her last evening, watching the sunset, a voice spoke beside her.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
A man—handsome, early forties—sat beside her. “I’ve noticed you. Always alone. The sea suits solitude.”
“I was just thinking that,” she admitted.
They talked for hours. No wedding ring. *Maybe this time…* When Alex kissed her under the stars, she didn’t pull away.
Next morning, she left. No numbers exchanged.
Back home, Seraphina eyed her tan suspiciously. Mrs. Whitaker grinned. “Well?”
Rose confessed.
“You didn’t even ask where he’s from?” Mrs. Whitaker groaned. “Christ, Rose.”
Then the pregnancy test.
“Keep it. Might be your only shot.”
“But Mum—”
“I’ll think of something.”
Mrs. Whitaker’s cousin in Edinburgh needed an editor. “Tell your mum it’s a career chance. She’ll survive.”
Seraphina let her go—with lectures, of course.
Edinburgh was a revelation. High ceilings, spiraling staircases. When her bump showed, her hostess, Alice, refused to let her leave.
But Mum’s calls gnawed at her. Weekends visits became calls. Lies piled up.
Until Seraphina barged in, spotting the belly.
“Knew it! Some seaside fling? When were you planning to tell me? Know what it’s like, raising a child alone?”
Rage, then resignation. “Fine. I’ll help. Stupid girl. Books always brought you trouble.”
Five years passed. Rose had her own flat now. Seraphina doted on grandson Alfie.
“Thank God he’s a boy. Less trouble.”
Then Alfie split his brow on the playground. Blood everywhere. Alice called an ambulance.
The ER was packed. A masked doctor took Alfie. When he returned, removing his mask, Rose froze.
Alex.
“Brave boy. Come back in a week to remove stitches.”
He didn’t recognize her.
But next visit, he paused. “Your name… I knew a Rose once. Brighton?”
She nodded, trembling.
A week later, he stood at her door, bearing gifts.
“The records had your address. Alfie’s mine, isn’t he?”
She panicked. “We don’t want anything—”
“My wife and daughter died in a crash,” he said softly. “Friends sent me to Brighton to heal.”
Fate had grinned at Rose twice—first with a seaside kiss, then with this.
The best meetings happen by chance. But only if you’re ready. And the sea? It listens—especially when Someone’s weaving hope for lonely hearts.
