As time passed, she began to open up.
Her husband had died a decade earlier. Her only son, Daniel, lived in another state. According to her, he visited “when convenient”—which meant almost never.
“He’s busy,” she would say, though a quiet ache always lingered behind her words.
Some evenings, I’d sit with her while she sipped tea, and she’d share stories of her youth—traveling through Europe, dancing in candlelit halls, falling in love with a man who made her laugh until she cried.
Those moments felt like borrowed time—fragile and precious.
Then, one winter morning, she didn’t answer the door.
A heavy, strange feeling settled in my chest as I knocked again, louder this time.
Nothing.
Leave a Comment