Beneath Each Chapter

Chapter Two: A Loveless Tradition

**Chapter Two**

The year was 1963, and I, Rosalind, was eighteen. My family was on vacation in Nice, France, a picturesque coastal city renowned for its stunning beaches, vibrant culture, and charming old town. Each day felt like a postcard come to life—sunlight glinting off the azure waves, the scent of fresh pastries wafting through narrow cobblestone streets. My father, a market owner with kind brown eyes, dark hair, and a gentle smile, savoured the break from his daily grind. My mother, a devoted stay-at-home wife with warm hazel eyes and a nurturing nature, busied herself with my younger sister, Adeline. Adeline, with her bright blonde hair and adventurous spirit, darted through the crowds, her laughter mingling with the sounds of street musicians.

 This trip felt bittersweet; it was likely our last family vacation together before I was to be married off to a man I had only met once. The thought weighed heavily on my heart, and each joyful moment felt like a reminder of the freedom I was about to lose.

Arranged marriages were a common tradition in our society, passed down through generations like a heavy cloak, one that I had never wanted to wear. My mother and grandmother had both experienced this custom, and I was destined to follow in their footsteps. It was a tradition that dated back hundreds of years, a relic of a bygone era, and I often wondered if my ancestors had felt the same pangs of unease that now consumed me.

Two days ago, I had attended the annual festival where eligible young women were presented to potential suitors. It was an elaborate event, filled with excitement and anticipation. The rules were simple yet ruthless: men could approach a woman they liked and offer her a ring. If a woman accepted, she was obligated to marry him—there was no room for refusal or negotiation. If a woman received a ring, she would stay and continue to enjoy the festival. However, if she did not receive a ring, she was free to go home. I found myself hoping for the latter.

On that fateful day, I wore a pink dress that was both simple and elegant, designed to adhere to the modest fashion standards of the 1960s. The dress featured a knee-length A-line silhouette with a round neckline and was made from soft, flowing fabric that draped over my body like a gentle embrace. The bodice was fitted, while the skirt flared out slightly below the waist, creating a shape that felt both flattering and stifling. Delicate lace adorned the neckline and cuffs, adding a touch of femininity that felt at odds with the turmoil in my heart.

My hair was styled in loose curls, cascading down my shoulders—a popular hairstyle among young women of the time. I had long, dark hair that shimmered in the sunlight, and my fair skin held a slight rosy tint. My deep brown eyes, often described as hazel, reflected the confusion and dread I felt within.

As I stepped into the festival grounds, a sense of dread washed over me, mingling with the sweet scents of cotton candy and blooming flowers. The girls were segregated from the boys, a tradition that amplified my anxiety. I could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on me, a silent judgment that dictated my worth based on a ring and a stranger's choice. I believed that marriage should be based on love and companionship, not on a chance encounter at a festival, and yet here I was, swept up in the spectacle.

My mother had been fortunate in her arranged marriage. Her husband, my father, was a kind and loving man, supportive and gentle. Yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being denied the opportunity to choose my own life partner. My heart yearned for the thrill of genuine connection, a love that blossomed naturally, not one forced upon me by tradition.

As the festival began, the atmosphere pulsed with laughter, music, and the chatter of excited young people. I found myself nervously scanning the crowd, my heart racing as I tried to glimpse potential suitors. Among them, I noticed a man with piercing blue eyes, blond hair, and a confident smirk. He looked no older than twenty-four, with tanned skin and a strong jawline that seemed to promise adventure. I felt a flicker of attraction mixed with an overwhelming sense of dread; he was precisely the type of man who could sweep someone off their feet, but not me—not like this.

The girls were then instructed to begin a traditional dance, a ritual seen as a form of seduction. We moved gracefully to the rhythm of the music, our steps choreographed to attract the attention of potential suitors. While we were not allowed to speak to the men or look at them directly, we could still feel their gazes upon us, the weight of their scrutiny palpable. I could still feel his gaze lingering on me, igniting a nervous thrill that made my heart race, but it was a thrill laced with fear.

As the dance concluded, the men began to approach the girls they had chosen. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a desperate prayer that I would escape this fate unscathed. I hoped against hope that the blue-eyed man would find someone else, someone who would welcome his attentions with open arms.

Yet, my prayers were answered in a way I hadn't anticipated. A man with dark brown eyes, black hair, and a serious expression stepped forward, a ring glinting in his hand. "Will you marry me?" he asked, his voice steady, devoid of warmth. My heart sank. This was not the future I had envisioned. While I was relieved that the blue-eyed man had not chosen me, I felt an overwhelming sense of loss as another man approached. My thoughts raced—this was not what I wanted. I had no desire to be married to a stranger, bound by tradition and obligation. I longed to choose my own path, to find love on my own terms, to seek the kind of connection that my parents had but that felt so far from my grasp.

I closed my eyes, wishing that the moment would pass, that I could wake up from this nightmare. But the reality of my situation was undeniable, like the heavy ring in his hand that seemed to symbolise everything I feared. I was not allowed to refuse. The oppressive weight of tradition loomed over me, a shadow that felt inescapable. In that moment, surrounded by laughter and light, I felt utterly alone.