23February not just a day for the lads. Today Eleanor Titton turns thirty, a nice round number, a true milestone.
The family will be converging from all corners of Britain: Aunt Lucy from Manchester, my cousin Mary in London with her highflying IT husband and their flawless twin boys, and Uncle Victor from Newcastle a jackofalltrades who built his own cottage almost singlehanded.
What could I possibly do to make Eleanors day special? She has no husband, no children, no highpaying job. She still lives in a cramped onebed flat she inherited from her grandmother, complete with the same glass shelf in the sideboard shes had since childhood, crowded with old photographs. Everyone keeps saying the world has moved on, yet all her schoolfriends are already married. Rosie has two little daughters, Hannahs son is off to nursery, and even the perpetual rebel Kate, who swore shed never tie the knot, is now happily settled with her partner, Victor.
Eleanors own world is a quiet one: she works at the local council library, knows every spine on the shelves, and lives a predictable, uneventful life.
The whole day is spent congratulating the men on the national service holiday, but in our family round dates are never missed, so theres no escaping a celebration.
Having to face the cold headon is the last thing I want, Eleanor thought, staring at the snowfall outside. I cant have Aunt Lucy sighing pitifully again, nor Mary smiling indulgently.
Being painfully shy at the thought of smalltalk with a stranger, she had dismissed meeting anyone in person. The internet was her only avenue. A month on a dating site yielded plenty of messages, but whenever the words serious or family slipped into the chat, the conversation died. The last exchange, with a bloke called Arthur, ended yesterday after she politely 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 bitter, temperatures hovering at minus thirty Celsius. The wind howled, matching the chill in Eleanors heart. She was curled up on her sofa in her grandmothers knitted blanket, scrolling aimlessly through social media.
A knock sounded at the door.
It was around eight in the evening. Dressed in a cosy pajama with owls on it, she felt a surge of irritation at the thought of opening the door.
The knock came again, insistent.
Who could that be now? 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! Eleanor snapped.
How could I not? A delivery to 29 High Street, surname Titton? the voice replied, puzzled.
The address and name matched perfectly. Eleanor caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror rumpled hair, a flushed nose from tea, pajamas. No, this cant be right, she thought. She threw on sweatpants, inhaled deeply, and opened the door.
Standing there was a courier, about thirtyfive, dusted in snow, balancing two steaming boxes and a thermos bag over his shoulder. His face was windscoured, eyes tired but alive. His jacket was clearly too thin for the frosty night.
Surely this isnt yours? he asked, a hint of frustration in his tone. Sorry about the mixup.
He turned to leave and Eleanor felt a sharp pang of pity. The cold was clearly taking its toll on him; sending him back out would waste his time and likely his earnings.
Wait! she blurted. Would you like a cup of tea while you warm up?
He raised an eyebrow, then smileda warm, almost homelike grin.
I wont say no. And how about a pizza on the house as a thankyou for the tea?
Within five minutes they were seated at her tiny kitchen table. The kettle whistled, Eleanor fetched a jar of her homemade raspberry jam and a hidden stash of goldenwrapped chocolates. The air filled with the scent of fresh bread, melted cheese, and an unexpected human warmth.
Im Tom Whitaker, he introduced, warming his hands over the mug. I run a little bakerycafé called The Crust on Victoria Road. My delivery driver called in sick with a fever, and the orders piled up, so Im out here myself. Im sorry for the inconvenience.
He spoke plainly, without any pretence. He mentioned that hed divorced three years ago, had no children, lived in a similar onebed flat in a different neighbourhood, loved fishing in the summer, and played guitar just for himself. There was a grounded, earthy steadiness to his words.
Encouraged by his sincerity and the gentle glow of the kitchen lamp, Eleanorusually reserved around strangersopened up. She talked about the looming birthday, the familys arrival, and the feeling of being left behind the train called normal life.
Tom listened attentively, nodding, never interrupting. When she fell silent, nursing her tea, he asked, a touch unexpectedly direct:
Tell me, would you consider marrying me?
Eleanor choked on her words.
What? Is that a thankyou for the tea? she managed, her cheeks flushing.
No, he shook his head, his expression turning serious. I just like you. Youre genuine. You sit here, feeling sorry for a shivering courier, sharing your jam. My exwife always said I wasnt ambitious enough. With you, I feel I could simply live well.
He laid out his modest, unromantic life:
I have the bakerysteady income, not lavish but reliable. A sturdy old cottage in the Yorkshire Dales with a sauna. Id like two kids, a boy and a girl, but not right away. If youre willing, we could sell our flats and get something bigger. So would you take me as a husband? No rush, just time to think.
Eleanor sat, frozen, thoughts racing: Hes crazy. Hes joking. Hes desperate. Hes a lifeline. Then, with a startling clarity, she saw not just Tom the courier, but the life he described: the sauna, the scent of fresh bread, childrens laughterthings shed almost stopped dreaming she could have.
She looked at his handsstrong, scarred from dough and toolsand at his open, calm face. She realised that if she said no, he would simply turn and leave.
Alright, Ill say yes, she whispered, her voice steady, a spring uncoiling inside her.
Tom laughed, relief evident.
Brilliant! Then, Eleanor Titton, get your passport ready. Ill swing by after work tomorrow, and well head to the register. I have a friend there who can fasttrack us. We might even make it before your birthday.
It turned out the pizza had been meant for her neighbour, Nadia Titton, who lives upstairs. The next day Tom delivered her order himself, apologising and bringing a box of fresh croissants as a gift. Nadia, shaking her head, said, Youre a proper character, Eleanor.
Eleanors birthday turned into a warm feast at The Crust, filled with cinnamon, fresh pastries, and laughter. The family, initially bewildered by Toms sudden appearance, grew to accept him. Aunt Lucy wiped a tear of affection, while cousin Mary, watching Tom smooth Eleanors stray curl, whispered, He looks at her the way I look at deadlinesfocused and caring.
She listened to the toasts, smiled, and realised that the greatest shield against lifes storms wasnt a polished armor of success, but a steady, reliable shoulder that appeared at her doorstep out of nowhere. Her desperate search had not led to a façade, but to a genuine home.
Lesson learned: an unexpected knock can open the door to a whole new chapterif youre brave enough to answer.
