Lucky Number Three

Lucky Number Three by Kaylin Render

Cora had not been on a date in more than two decades, and she wore that fact like a badge of honor. Not because she was proud of it, exactly, but because she had survived things that made dating feel like a luxury item—nice in theory, but not essential to the business of staying alive.

She left her abusive marriage with her three‑year‑old daughter on her hip, a diaper bag slung over her shoulder, and a single suitcase rolling behind her. She didn’t have a plan, but she had resolve. She didn’t have money, but she had grit. And she didn’t have a partner, but she had a child who needed her to be brave. So, she was.

Life after that became a long stretch of doing what needed to be done. She built a career. She built a home. She built a daughter who grew into a young woman with a spine of steel and a heart of gold. And somewhere along the way, she forgot that she was allowed to want things for herself.

It wasn’t until her daughter, packing for college, paused in the middle of folding a sweatshirt and said, “Mom… I don’t want you to be alone,” that something inside Cora shifted. It wasn’t pity in her daughter’s voice. It was love. It was hope. It was a gentle push toward a life Cora had quietly convinced herself she didn’t need.

But dating? In her fifties? After twenty years of being out of the game? She didn’t even know the rules anymore. Did people still meet in grocery stores? At church? At the gym? She tried to imagine herself flirting with someone while picking out avocados and nearly laughed herself into a coughing fit.

So she did the thing she swore she’d never do: she made a dating profile.

She agonized over the photos. Should she smile with teeth or without? Should she include her dogs? Was that too much? Too little? Should she mention she hadn’t dated since the Clinton administration? Probably not.

Her daughter helped her write the bio.

“Just be honest,” she said. “But not, like, too honest.”

Cora rolled her eyes but typed anyway: Single mom. Book lover. Looking for someone kind.

She hit “submit” and immediately wanted to throw her phone into the nearest body of water. Instead, she set it face‑down on the counter and walked away like it might explode.

Date One

He was nice. Perfectly nice. He talked about his job, his kids, his love of hiking. She nodded, smiled, asked polite questions. Halfway through, she excused herself to the bathroom and called her girlfriends.

“Blink twice if you need an extraction,” one of them said.

“I’m fine,” Cora whispered. “He’s just… beige.”

“Beige is fine,” another friend said. “Beige is safe.”

“I don’t want safe,” Cora said before she could stop herself. “I want… something.”

She didn’t know what that something was, but she knew she didn’t feel it here.

She returned to the table, finished her tea, and left with a polite hug and zero desire for a second date.

Date Two

She had high hopes for this one. He was funny in messages, charming even. But the moment they stepped out of the café restroom at the same time and he reached for her hand—still wet, and not from washing—she felt her soul leave her body.

She yanked her hand back so fast she nearly dislocated her shoulder.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yep,” she said, already backing away. “Emergency. Gotta go.”

She didn’t even pretend to feel bad.

Enter Number Three

By the time Number Three messaged her, she was ready to delete the app, her profile, and possibly her entire digital footprint. But he was… different. His messages were thoughtful. He asked questions and actually waited for the answers. He didn’t send selfies from the gym or pictures of his truck. He didn’t call her “sweetie” or “babe.” He didn’t make her feel like she was auditioning.

Their conversations drifted from the app to texting, slow and steady, like two people walking toward each other from opposite ends of a long hallway.

One evening, as they chatted, Cora wandered into the kitchen. She’d never liked coffee—too bitter—and tea tasted like someone had steeped it in a puddle. But hot cocoa? That was her comfort ritual.

She warmed milk in a saucepan, crumbled in bittersweet chocolate, whisked in a pinch of cornstarch to thicken it, added a splash of heavy cream, and finished with a generous spoonful of powdered sugar. Her furbabies curled around her feet as she stirred.

Back on the couch, mug in hand, she texted Number Three between sips.

That’s when he asked her out.

“Coffee at the Mustard Seed Café?”

Her heart thudded. She typed, “I don’t drink coffee.”

A long pause.

Too long.

She realized he thought she was politely declining.

She quickly added, “But I love hot chocolate.”

He responded almost instantly. “Then hot chocolate it is.”

The First Date

The morning of the date, Cora was a mess. She tried on four outfits. Then six. She changed her earrings twice. She paced. She scolded herself for pacing. She told herself she was a grown woman who had survived far worse than a first date. Her nerves ignored her entirely.

Later, she’d learn that Number Three was equally nervous—so nervous he forgot deodorant. Completely. He realized it halfway to the café and nearly turned around, but something told him to keep going.

When she walked in, he stood to greet her, and for a moment, they both froze. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. More like two people who suddenly forgot how to human.

But then he smiled. And she smiled. And the world righted itself.

They talked. They laughed. They flirted in that shy, hopeful way that feels like stepping into sunlight after a long winter. Her cocoa was rich and warm. His coffee smelled like heaven. Their conversation flowed in fits and starts, but it flowed.

When the check came, he hesitated.

“Would you… want to go somewhere else?” he asked. “There’s a pottery‑painting studio down the street.”

She blinked. “Pottery?”

“Yeah. We could paint mugs. You know… coffee and cocoa.”

It was cheesy. It was adorable. It was perfect.

She said yes.

The Second Location

The studio was quiet, filled with shelves of unpainted mugs and bowls. They chose matching mugs—one slightly taller, one slightly rounder. His was for coffee. Hers for cocoa.

They sat side by side, dipping brushes into paint, laughing at their own lack of artistic skill. His mug ended up crooked and charming. Hers was neat and whimsical. Together, they looked like a pair.

When they finished, he looked at her with a softness she hadn’t seen directed at her in years.

“I’m really glad you came today,” he said.

“Me too,” she whispered.

And she meant it.

Two and a Half Years Later

The mugs sit on a shelf in their shared kitchen now. The paint has faded slightly, but the memory hasn’t. On quiet evenings, they curl up on the couch—her cocoa, his coffee—and sip from the mugs they made on the day everything changed.

Cora still marvels at it sometimes. That after twenty years of believing her romantic life was over, she found something real. Something gentle. Something safe and warm and steady.

Turns out, the third time really was the charm and number three turned out to be number one in her heart.