A Mistaken Date
Emma stepped out of the office building and drew in a deep breath of autumn air, crisp with the scent of fallen leaves. The sun hung low, casting golden light over what the English called “St. Martin’s summer”—those rare, warm days before winter truly set in. The nights were chilly now, but the afternoons still allowed for light dresses and cardigans.
She walked briskly, lost in thought, debating whether to pick up Oliver from nursery first or stop by the Co-op for groceries. The little shop near the nursery sold pocket-sized toys, and Oliver would inevitably whine for something—money was tight this close to payday, and whatever he wanted would hold his interest for five minutes at most.
Glancing at her watch, Emma decided she had just enough time to shop, drop her bags at home, and then fetch Oliver. Quickening her pace, she barely registered the faces around her, her mind occupied with a mental list: *Don’t forget the salt. Why does it always run out without warning?*
“Emma! Emma Whitaker!”
The voice startled her. She took a few more steps before stopping, turning to see a woman beaming at her.
“Don’t recognise me? You swore we’d be friends forever.”
The words jogged Emma’s memory. Before her stood not the slender, dark-haired girl from school but a glamorous woman in tailored clothes—Caroline Sterling, her childhood friend. They’d met in Year Three, shared a desk until graduation, and solemnly promised eternal friendship. Life, as it did, had pulled them apart.
“You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Caroline remarked, taking in Emma’s weary expression and plain office attire.
Emma bristled slightly but deflected. “You seem well. Married again?”
“Second time. No children yet. You?”
Hearing the wistful note, Emma changed the subject. “I’m not married, but I’ve got Oliver. He’s five.”
“Goodness! We’re all grown up—our mates have kids in uni, and yours is still in nappies!”
Emma flushed. “He’s in nursery, not nappies.”
Caroline waved a hand. “Oh, don’t take offence. You always were the studious one. Never fancied the lads.”
Emma stiffened. “I should go. Oliver’s waiting.”
“Wait—your number. Let’s meet up properly.” Reluctantly, Emma recited it, eager to escape.
Caroline wasted no time. She rang the next day, insisting on a Saturday café meet-up.
*Bloody hell. There goes my day off.*
When Saturday came, Emma found herself in a stylish café—somewhere she’d never have entered otherwise. She fidgeted, out of place. Caroline, ever perceptive, ordered wine. The drink loosened Emma’s tongue, and they reminisced about school.
Eventually, Caroline leaned in. “Listen, my colleague’s son—decent bloke, works in IT. Bit shy. Fancy meeting him?”
Emma scowled. “I’m not some charity case.”
“Give it a go. What’s the harm?”
Against her better judgment, Emma relented.
The following Sunday, she dropped Oliver at her mum’s, touched up her mascara, and dressed plainly. Just as she left, she realised—she didn’t even know the man’s name.
At the café, two lone men sat at the bar. One caught her eye and smiled.
She approached him, nerves buzzing. A glass of wine later, she was rambling, confessing things she’d never normally share.
“I should warn you—I’ve a son. If that’s a problem—”
The man simply listened.
By evening, the wine made the room spin. He helped her outside, where the cool air steadied her. They walked, talking until they reached her flat.
She didn’t invite him in.
Later, Caroline called, furious. “You stood him up!”
“No, I—”
“You met the wrong man, you idiot!”
Emma’s stomach dropped.
Days passed. Then, a call. A warm voice: “Hello, Emma. It’s Jonathan. From the café.”
Her face burned. “You’re not Caroline’s friend’s son.”
“No. But I’m glad I met you.”
They saw each other again, this time in the park with Oliver. To Emma’s relief, Jonathan and Oliver got along brilliantly—carousel rides, ice cream, laughter.
Sometimes, mistakes led to the best things. People believed they made their own choices. But perhaps, somewhere above, fate nudged hearts together when they least expected it.
