A Special Milestone Celebration

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 8 minViews 3

23February isnt just a day for men. For Emily Tate it marks the thirtieth birthday shes been waiting for a round number, a proper milestone.

Relatives will be coming from all over the country: Aunt Lucy from Manchester, cousin Mary from London with her ITengineer husband and their two pictureperfect twins, and Uncle Victor from Birmingham a jackofalltrades who built his own house almost entirely by himself.

What could Emily possibly offer them?

No husband, no children, no highpaying job. She still lives in the onebedroom council flat she inherited from her grandmother. A glass shelf in the old sideboard, as familiar as a childhood lullaby, bears a collection of photographs that press on her memory. The worlds changed, people say, yet all her friends are already married. Natalie has two little girls, Dianas son is already in nursery, and even the everrebellious Katie, who swore never to wed, is now blissfully settled with her partner, Victor.

Emilys life, on the other hand, consists of a beloved post at the local Gollancz Library, where she knows every spine, and a quiet, predictable routine.

Even her birthday felt like a sideshow. While everyone else was congratulating men for the nations Armed Forces Day, Emilys own rounddate was expected to be celebrated, and there was no ducking out of it.

Having to face the cold headon is the last thing I want, she thought, watching the snow howl outside. I cant let Aunt Lucy sigh pitifully again, nor see Mary smile condescendingly.

Shy as a mouse at the thought of chatting with a stranger, Emily ruled out meeting anyone in person. The only remaining avenue was the internet. A month on a dating site yielded a flood of messages, but the moment the words seriously or family slipped into a chat, the conversation froze. The latest one, with a man called Arthur, died yesterday after Emilys cautious Why are you looking for a relationship? was met with Just casual, see where it goes, before he vanished from the site.

That winter was bitter, minus thirty degrees, and the wind rattled the panes as fiercely as her mood. Wrapped in her grandmothers faded quilt, Emily scrolled aimlessly through social feeds.

A knock came at the door.

It was around eight in the evening. Dressed in a cosy pyjamas with cartoon owls, she felt a sudden irritation at the thought of getting up.

The knock came again, more insistent.

Who else could it be? she muttered, shuffling to the hallway.

Did someone order a pizza? a young, slightly hoarse voice called from the other side.

What pizza? I didnt order anything! Emily replied, wary.

Didnt you? Thats odd, the voice replied, confused. Oxford Street, 29 name Tate?

The address and surname were spot on. Emily caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror: dishevelled hair, a nose flushed from tea, and pyjamas. No, that cant be right, she thought, quickly pulling on a tracksuit and taking a deep breath before opening the door.

A courier, looking about thirtyfive, stood there, cheeks pink from the cold, holding two steaming pizza boxes and a thermos slung over his shoulder. His coat was too thin for the weather, but his eyes were bright despite the weariness.

Are you sure this isnt yours? he asked, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. Sorry for the bother.

As he turned to leave, a sharp pang of pity hit Emily. He looked frozen, and she imagined the time he would waste returning the order, possibly losing money.

Wait! the word sprang from her. Would you like a cup of tea while you warm up?

He raised an eyebrow, then broke into a broad, homely grin.

Id love that. And keep the pizza as a thankyou for the trouble, he said, pointing to the boxes. Weve got a Margherita and a Four Seasons. Choose whichever you like.

Within five minutes they were seated at Emilys tiny kitchen table. The kettle whistled, she fetched a jar of her own raspberry jam and a tin of chocolate bonbons she kept for guests. The air filled with the scent of fresh bread, cheese, and an unexpected human warmth.

Im Kieran, he introduced himself, warming his hands on the mug. I run a small bakeshop and café called The Crust. My driver called in sick with a fever, and the orders piled up, so Im doing the deliveries myself. Dont want to let customers down.

He spoke plainly, without any pretence. He mentioned hed divorced three years ago, had no children, lived in a similar onebedroom flat in a different borough, loved fishing in the summer, and strummed a guitar just for his own enjoyment. There was a solid, downtoearth steadiness to his story.

Encouraged by his sincerity and the gentle glow of the kitchen lamp, Emily, usually reticent with strangers, opened up. She spoke of the looming birthday, the family gathering, and the feeling that she was forever lagging behind the train called normal life.

Kieran listened, nodding, never interrupting. When she fell silent, sipping tea shyly, he asked, Listen, would you consider marrying me?

Emily choked on her words.

What? Is that a thankyou for the hospitality? she sputtered, cheeks burning.

No, he shook his head, his expression turning serious. I just liked you straight away. Youre genuine. Youre sitting here, feeling sorry for a frozen courier, sharing your jam, and your eyes are honest. My exwife always said I was not ambitious enough. You you seem like someone I could simply live with. Good living.

He laid out his modest life without any romantic gloss:

I have the bakery. Incomes modest but steady. I own a reliable van for deliveries and fishing trips. Theres an old but sturdy cottage in Sussex with a sauna. Id like two childrena boy and a girlthough not right away. If youre up for it, we could sell our flats and look for something bigger. What do you think? Too sudden?

Emily sat, stunned, thoughts tumbling: Hes crazy. Is this a joke? Desperation? Salvation? Then, with a startling clarity, she saw not just Kieran but the life he described a real, unpretentious picture, not a façade for relatives. A cottage in Sussex, the smell of fresh bread, childrens laughter, a future she hadnt allowed herself to imagine.

She looked at his hands strong, workworn, with faint cuts from dough or tools and his open, calm face. She realised that if she said No, he would simply stand up and leave.

Ill Ill say yes, she whispered, firm yet soft, feeling something inside snap and straighten like a tightened spring.

Kieran laughed, relief evident.

Brilliant! Then, Emily Tate, get your passport ready. Ill swing by after work tomorrow, and well head to the register. I have a friend there who can fasttrack the paperwork. Maybe well even make it in time for your birthday.

It turned out the pizza had been meant for neighbour Nadine Tate, an unrelated Tate who lived on the floor above. The next day Kieran delivered her order himself, apologising and adding a box of fresh croissants as a gift. Nadine, shaking her head, said, Well, Emily, you never cease to amaze me!

Emily never imagined a birthday like this. The day was remembered for the warm gathering at The Crust, where cinnamon and fresh pastries filled the air.

Her relatives, seeing the steady, grounded Kieran, were initially puzzled by the speed of the turn, but eventually gave their blessing.

Aunt Lucy wiped a tear of affection, and cousin Mary, watching Kieran tuck a stray curl behind Emilys ear, whispered, He looks at you the way I look at my deadlines with focus and devotion.

Emily listened to the toasts, smiled, and realised that the greatest shield against lifes storms wasnt a flashy armour of success, but a reliable partners steady shoulder that appeared at her doorstep out of nowhere. Her desperate little adventure had not led her to a façade, but to a real home. The lesson she took to heart was simple: sometimes a single act of kindness can open the door to a life you never thought possible.

My Dearest One. A Story Caroline had always believed she’d grown up in her own family. It still seemed impossible to accept. But there was no one left to talk to about it. Her adoptive parents had passed away, one after the other. First her father fell ill and never recovered. Soon after, her mother followed. Caroline had sat at her mother’s bedside, holding her frail, lifeless hand. Her mother was very weak. Suddenly, Caroline noticed her mother opening her eyes: “Carrie, darling, your father and I never managed to tell you. We just couldn’t bring ourselves to say it… We found you. Yes, we found you in the woods, crying, lost. We waited for someone to come looking for you. Reported it to the police. But no one ever did. Maybe something happened, I never knew. And in the end they let us adopt you. At home, in the dresser where I keep my papers. There are some documents… letters… Please, read them. Forgive us, darling.” Her mother was exhausted and closed her eyes. “Oh, Mum,” Caroline pressed her mother’s hand to her cheek, unsure what to say, “Mum, I love you and I so want you to get better.” But the miracle never came. And within a few days, her mother was gone. It might have been better if she’d told Caroline nothing at all. She didn’t tell her husband or her children about her mother’s last words. In fact, she seemed to have forgotten, tucking her mother’s secret away in a dark corner of her memory. The children had adored their grandma and granddad. Caroline didn’t want to trouble anyone with this unwanted truth. But one day, driven by a strange impulse, she finally opened the folder her mother had mentioned. There were newspaper clippings, letters, responses. As Caroline began to read, she couldn’t stop. Dearest, beloved parents! They had found her—Caroline—at eighteen months old, in the woods. They were already in their forties and had no children. Suddenly, a crying little girl had reached out to them with tiny arms. The village constable had just shrugged his shoulders—no one had reported a missing child. They adopted Caroline. But her mother kept searching for her real family. Perhaps not to find them, but to make sure no one would come and take their beloved daughter away. Caroline shut the folder and shoved it far back on the shelf. Who needed this truth? A week later, she was called into Human Resources: “Caroline Paige, there’s someone here asking after you from your previous job.” A woman about Caroline’s age sat next to the HR manager: “Hello, I’m Helen. I really must talk to you,” Helen glanced at the HR manager, “It’s about Mrs. Elizabeth Chapman. You’re her daughter, right?” “You said this was about her old work!” the HR manager fumed. “Private matters aren’t for work hours!” “It’s all right, Helen, let’s talk outside,” Caroline suggested. They left under the HR manager’s watchful glare. “I’m sorry, this is strange, but I promised,” Helen began nervously, “Three years ago, I ran into my first primary school teacher—at Littledale Primary. I’d moved on, but she’d stayed. She was old, all alone. Invited me in for tea, asked me for a favour. Said her little girl went missing many years ago. She’d been writing to your mother.” “I’m sorry, Helen,” Caroline replied stiffly, “My mother died, and I’m not involved in this.” “I understand, Caroline. It’s just—Mrs. Chapman’s very ill. Cancer, they say she doesn’t have long. She’s desperate to find her daughter, whom she’s searched for all her life. She even gave me a lock of hair to try for a DNA test. Can you imagine?” Caroline was about to end the conversation, but something stopped her. “She’s seriously ill, you say?” Helen nodded. Caroline took the envelope with the hair and agreed to stay in touch. A week later, they visited Mrs. Chapman in hospital together. They walked into her room, and Mrs. Chapman peered at them with dim eyes. “Oh, Helen, you came! Thank you, dear,” she smiled shyly, then looked questioningly at Caroline. “Mrs. Chapman, I found her. This is Caroline. She wanted to come herself,” Helen handed her an envelope. “What’s that? Even with my glasses I can hardly see,” her eyes looked at them, hopeful. “It’s the test result,” Helen pulled out a sheet, “It says you’re related. Caroline is your daughter.” Mrs. Chapman’s face lit up with joy, tears spilling down her cheeks. “My dearest, my child—thank you both—my dearest, what happiness. I’ve found you. Alive and beautiful, looking just like I did as a girl. My dearest child,” she took Caroline’s hands, “Every night of my life I woke thinking I heard you crying, calling for me. There’s no forgiving me. Alive, alive. Now I can rest.” A little later, Helen and Caroline left Mrs. Chapman, who drifted off to sleep, exhausted. “Thank you, Caroline. You can see how ill she is. You made her happy.” A few days later, Mrs. Chapman passed away. Caroline tore up all the papers from her mother’s folder. She didn’t want anyone else to uncover this pointless truth. But what truth was there, really? After all, Caroline had never had any other mother. And Mrs. Chapman? That was just a blessed lie. Was Caroline right to do what she did? She believes it was for the best. In the end, each of us must answer to God for what we have done.

The Terrible Neighbour “Don’t touch my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Keep an eye on your own eyes! Think I don’t notice who you’re gawping at?” “So, you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Borisovna looked surprised. “Oh, I see who you’ve got your sights on! I know what I’ll get you for Christmas—a lip curler!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda. “Or are your lips beyond help even with that?” Old Tamara swung her legs off the ancient bed and walked over to her shelf of trinkets, ready for her morning routine. She wouldn’t call herself overly religious: surely something must be out there, someone in charge of all this, right? Just not sure who. Such a power went by many names: the universe, the great beyond, and of course, the Good Lord! Yes, that kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, nestled on a cloud and thinking of all us mortals. Besides, Tamara was well into her late sixties now. At that age, better not fall out with the Big Guy: if He isn’t there, well, no harm done for believing. But if He is—non-believers lose everything. So at the end of her morning prayers Tamara always added a little something in her own words. Why not? Ritual complete, soul lighter—time to start a new day. Tamara Borisovna had two great misfortunes. No, not fools and roads (that would be too clichéd). It was her neighbour Lynda and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were a typical modern lot—didn’t want to do anything. But hey, they had their parents to wrangle them. But what to do about Lynda? She could wind Tamara up like no-one else! On telly, sparring between famous actresses looks touching and fun. In real life, it’s anything but charming, especially when the nitpicking is for no reason. Tamara also had a friend: everyone called him Pete the Moped. His full name: Peter James Wagstaff—what a name! Guessing the origin of his nickname was easy: in his youth, Pete had loved whizzing about on his moped. Well, ‘moped’, as the cheeky lads called it. These days, the broken old bike gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck fast—a proper village tale! Back in the day, they’d been family friends: Pete the Moped and wife Nina, Tamara and her husband. Now, both their partners rested peacefully in the local cemetery. Tamara still stuck by Pete—she’d known him since school, after all, and he was a true friend. Back at school, there were three of them: Tamara, Pete and Lynda—a golden trio, nothing flirtatious about it. They’d go everywhere together, Pete in the middle, Tamara and Lynda each holding on to an arm—a perfect two-handled cup, as Tamara liked to picture it. But over the years, the friendship faded. Actually, it turned sour—first into Lynda’s coldness, then outright animosity. As in the cartoon: “More and more, I feel like someone swapped me out for a copy…” Indeed, it was as if someone swapped Lynda out! It happened after her husband died—before that, things had been reasonably all right. Of course, people change with time: a bit stingy becomes downright miserly. Chatty becomes gossipy. Envy can tear a person to bits. That’s probably what happened with Lynda—well, women are like that. So are men, to be fair. And there was reason to be jealous. First, Tamara had stayed trim over the years, whereas Lynda had gone quite round: where’s the waist meant to be, madam? She hardly looked her best compared to her neighbour. Second, their old school friend Pete paid much more attention to sprightly Tamara—lots of whispers and giggles, nearly touching grey heads. With Lynda, exchanges were curt and stiff. Pete popped by Tamara’s for tea far more often; Lynda practically had to bribe him to visit her… Sure, maybe she wasn’t as clever as annoying Tamara. Or as funny! And Pete loved a good laugh. There’s a fine English word for nattering—wittering, which Shukshin himself would approve of. And lately, that’s exactly what Lynda did, picking fights over nothing. First, she announced Tamara’s toilet was stinking up the place! “Your loo smells foul!” Lynda pronounced. “Oh, honestly! It’s been in the same place for years—you only just now noticed?” Tamara shot back, then couldn’t resist: “And you got those new glasses free on the NHS—can’t expect quality for free!” “Don’t you dare talk about my glasses!” Lynda shrieked. “Worry about your own eyes! Think I don’t see you ogling about?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara raised an eyebrow. “I know what I’ll get you for Christmas: a lip curler!” “Keep it for yourself!” Lynda snapped. “Or is there no machine that can cope with your pout? Think I don’t see?” Oh, Lynda saw all right, time and again. Pete, when told about it, suggested they brick up the outdoor loo and put one indoors. Tamara’s son and daughter chipped in, and before long she had a smart indoor toilet. Pete, ever the handyman, buried the old waste pit himself. Take that, Lynda! Time to find a new complaint! No chance. Lynda promptly accused Tamara’s grandchildren of stripping pears from her tree—the branches stretched over Tamara’s fence. “They just thought it was ours!” Tamara tried, even though, as she saw it, nobody touched the pears! “Anyway, your chickens scratch up my veggie patch, you know!” “Chickens are stupid—it’s in their nature!” Lynda snapped, voice rising. “But grandkids need raising, Nana—not giggling all day with your scandals!” So, back to square one: it all turned into a tiff about Pete again… The kids got a firm word, and pears were soon out of season: rest easy, Lynda! No luck: now, according to Lynda, the branches were damaged! “Show me!” Tamara protested—nothing was broken! “Here and here!” Lynda stabbed the air with a gnarled finger. Even Tamara’s hands were prettier: slender, elegant. Hands say a lot about a woman! Even in the countryside, style’s important. Pete suggested cutting the offending branches. “They’re on your property? You can do as you like!” “She’ll shout the roof down!” Tamara worried. “I bet she won’t,” Pete assured her. “I’ll have your back!” And indeed, even though Lynda saw Pete pruning, she stayed totally silent. So, the tree problem solved. But now it was Tamara’s turn—Lynda’s hens truly did invade her garden beds. This year Lynda had a new breed—last year wasn’t so bad. But a chicken is a chicken: dumb as a post, forever scratching. Tamara’s seedlings ended up raked out. Tamara asked nicely, but Lynda only smirked: what are you going to do about it? One option: catch a chicken or two, and make a point of roasting them for Sunday lunch! But gentle Tamara wasn’t up for such drastic measures. Instead, her clever friend suggested something from the internet—scatter eggs around the beds at night, and collect them in the morning as if the hens had laid them. It worked! Thanks, world wide web! Lynda, stunned, watched Tamara collecting eggs from the veg patch and said not a word. The hens never set foot there again. Surely now, they’d make peace? Lynda, how about it? No more reason to squabble! Not so fast! Lynda now complained about kitchen smoke and smells from Tamara’s summer house, where she cooked until late autumn. Yesterday it was fine, today it’s a problem! Maybe I’m bothered by the smell of frying meat—maybe I’m vegetarian! And Parliament even passed rules about backyard barbecues! “Where’ve you seen a barbecue?” Tamara asked, exasperated. “You need to clean your glasses, darling!” She remained patient and polite, but this was too much. The neighbour had become downright impossible—no peace from Lynda… “Maybe I should donate her for research,” Tamara joked wearily to Pete over tea. “She’s going to eat me alive!” She’d dropped weight with all this stress. “She’d choke!” Pete grinned, “And I’d never let it happen! I’ve got a better idea!” A few days later, on a bright morning, Tamara heard a song: “Tammy, Tammy—come out and see me!” There was Pete, standing by the door, beaming—he’d fixed up his old moped. “You know why I used to be sad?” he announced. “Because my moped was broken! Ready for a ride, gorgeous? Let’s remember the good old days!” Tamara hopped on gleefully! After all, Parliament says 65+ makes you an active retiree these days—old age is officially cancelled! Off she went, into a new life in every sense. Before long, she’d become Mrs Wagstaff: Pete proposed and she moved in with her new husband. And Lynda? Alone, plump and peevish as ever. Tell me, what better reason to be jealous? And with no one left to quarrel with, she had only herself to stew with her gripes. But negativity needs somewhere to go… So, chin up, Tamara, and don’t leave your new home! Who knows what’s next? Life in the English countryside is a real soap opera! All that trouble over the loo really was for nothing…