I arrive at Maple & Vine Café in Brooklyn Heights five minutes early, my quiet way of pretending I still have control over things that clearly don’t want to be controlled.

The café smells like cinnamon and espresso, and the warm lights soften everything, even my nerves. I choose a table by the window, order chamomile—because I’m lying to myself about being calm—and place my phone face-down, like a charm against disappointment.

Paula, my best friend and self-appointed matchmaker, promised this man was different. “Kind eyes,” she said. “Grounded. The kind of man who’s already earned something good.”

I told her I was exhausted by charm and half-promises disguised as fate. She laughed and said, “One coffee. If it’s terrible, you get to blame me forever.”

I check the time. Then check it again. Seven o’clock comes and goes. The chair across from me stays empty. Old thoughts creep in—maybe I misunderstood, maybe I’m always the backup plan—but I breathe through them. Ten minutes isn’t a tragedy. Not yet.

Then I hear a small, confident voice.

“Um… excuse me. Are you Emma?”

I look up, ready to smile at a man in a jacket. Instead, I find three identical little girls standing in front of my table. Matching red sweaters. Blonde curls. Serious expressions that don’t belong on five-year-old faces.“We’re here about our dad,” one announces solemnly. Another nods. “He feels really bad he’s late.” The third adds, “There was an emergency at work.”

I blink. Slowly. Blind dates don’t come with triplets.When their mother returns with cameras and demands, the girls speak clearly and bravely. They choose presence over performance. She leaves.

A year later, back at the same café, Daniel kneels while the girls hold a crooked sign asking me to stay forever.

I say yes.

Not because it’s perfect.

But because it’s real.