23June isnt just a day for the blokes. For Emma Titova its the big threezero a proper round birthday, a little milestone.
The whole clan will turn up from all over: Aunt Lucy flying in from Manchester, cousin Harriet from Liverpool with her ITguru husband and their two pictureperfect twins, Uncle Victor from Oxford a jackofalltrades who built his own house almost entirely with his own two hands.
What does Emma have in store for them?
No husband, no kids, no sixfigure job. Shes still living in the same tiny council flat she inherited from her gran. A glass shelf in the sideboard the one shes been staring at since she was a kid bears a load of old photos. They say the worlds gone round, but all her mates are already married. Nina has two little girls, Daisys son is off to nursery, and even rebel Katie, who swore shed never tie the knot, is now happy with her lad, Victor.
Emmas life? She works at the local public library, knows every spine on the shelves, and enjoys a quiet, predictable routine.
Even her birthday feels like a sideshow. Everyone that day is busy wishing the men Happy Fathers Day. In her family, though, a round date is never missed, so theres no dodging it.
It would be awful to go down in the snow, face first, Emma thought, watching the blizzard outside. I cant have Aunt Lucy sighing pitifully again, or Harriet giving that halfsmile.
Shes always been the shy type knees knocking at the thought of a chat with a stranger so the reallife meeting routes were off the table. Online dating was the only avenue. A month on a dating site brought a flood of messages, but the moment anyone slipped in words like seriously or family, the conversation died. The last one, with a bloke called Arthur, fizzled out yesterday after she asked, Why are you looking for a relationship? He replied, Just a bit of fun, see where it goes, and vanished an hour later.
That winter was brutal thirtyodd degrees below zero, wind howling like a banshee. Emma was curled up on the couch in her grans old throw, scrolling aimlessly through her feeds.
A knock at the door startled her.
It was about eight, she wasnt expecting anyone, and she was in a cosy owlprint pyjamas. Opening the door felt like a chore.
The knock came again, insistent.
Who could that be now? she muttered, heading for the hallway.
Did you order a pizza? a young, slightly hoarse voice called from outside.
What pizza? I didnt order anything! Emma snapped.
You didnt? the voice sounded baffled. Twentynine High Street, London, name Titova?
The address and surname were spot on. Emma caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror messy hair, a nose pink from tea, pyjamas still on. No, that cant be right, she thought, quickly throwing on a tracksuit and taking a deep breath before opening the door.
A delivery rider, about thirtyfive, stood shivering with two steaming boxes and a thermos slung over his shoulder. His face was windscoured but his eyes were bright, though tired. His jacket was laughably thin for the weather.
Are you sure this isnt yours? he asked, a hint of irritation flickering across his face. Sorry to bother you.
As he turned to leave, something in Emma snapped. He was freezing, and now hed have to go back, lose time, maybe money.
Wait! she blurted. Would you like a cuppa while you warm up?
He lifted his eyebrows, then broke into a genuine, homelike grin.
Why not. And keep the pizza as a thankyou for the tea. He pointed to the boxes a Margherita and a Four Seasons. Pick whichever you fancy.
Five minutes later they were sitting at Emmas tiny kitchen table. The kettle whistled, Emma fetched a jar of homemade raspberry jam and a hidden stash of goldenwrapped chocolates. The air smelled of fresh bread, cheese, and that unexpected human warmth.
Im Tom, he introduced, warming his hands on a mug. I run a little bakerycafé called The Twist. My driver called in sick with a fever, and the orders piled up, so Im doing the deliveries myself. I dont want to let my customers down.
He talked plainly, no pretence. Hed split up three years ago, no kids, lives in a similar onebed flat but in a different part of town. Loves fishing in the summer and strums a guitar for his own amusement. There was a solid, downtoearth vibe to his stories.
Emma, usually tightlipped with strangers, suddenly let her guard down. She talked about the looming birthday, the family gathering, the feeling of being left behind on the train called normal life.
Tom listened, nodding, not interrupting. When she fell silent, sipping her tea, he asked, almost shyly:
So, would you ever marry a guy like me?
Emma choked on her tea.
What? Is that a thankyou for the tea? she sputtered, cheeks flaming.
No, he shook his head, his gaze turning serious. I just liked you straight away. Youre real. You sit here, feeling sorry for a frozen delivery guy, pulling out your jam, and your eyes are honest. My ex always said I wasnt ambitious enough. You seem like someone I could just live with. Have a good life.
He laid his life out on the table, no romantic fluff:
Ive got the bakery. Incomes modest but steady. Ive got a sturdy old cottage out in Yorkshire with a sauna. I dream of two kids a boy and a girl not right away, of course. If youre up for it, we could sell our flats and get something bigger. What do you think? Too fast? Give it some thought?
Emma sat there, stunned. Thoughts raced: Hes crazy. Is this a joke? Desperation? Salvation? Then, with a frightening clarity, she didnt just see Tom; she saw the life he described a real, unpolished picture, not a show for the family. A sauna in Yorkshire, the smell of fresh bread, kids laughter shed almost stopped hoping for.
She looked at his hands strong, workmarked, maybe from dough or tools and his open, calm face. She realised that if she said no, hed simply stand up and walk out.
So Ill say yes, she whispered, the words firm and clear, a spring finally releasing its tension.
Tom laughed, relief evident.
Brilliant! Then, Emma Titova, get your passport ready. Ill swing by after work tomorrow, and well head to the registry office. I know someone there who can speed things up. We might even make it in time for your birthday.
Turns out the pizza was meant for neighbour Nadia Titova, a distant relative living upstairs. The next day Tom delivered her order himself, apologising and handing over a box of fresh croissants as a gift. Nadia waved them off, laughing, Honestly, Emma, you never cease to surprise us!
Emma never imagined a birthday like this. That day became a warm, bustling evening at The Twist, the air thick with cinnamon and fresh pastries.
Her family, seeing the steady, grounded Tom, were initially bewildered by the whirlwind but ultimately approving. Aunt Lucy wiped a tear of affection, and cousin Harriet, watching Tom fix a stray curl on Emmas head, whispered, He looks at you the way I look at my deadlines with a mix of love and determination.
Emma listened to the toasts, smiled, and realised that the best shield against lifes storms wasnt a flashy suit of armour, but a solid, dependable shoulder that appeared at her doorstep out of nowhere. What started as a desperate fling turned into a real home, a genuine partnership.
