I would wake up on the morning we were supposed to meet and find myself smiling before I had even gotten out of bed.
My children noticed.
One Sunday, my daughter, Emily, came over for lunch and watched me carefully as I prepared the vegetables.
“You’re different lately,” she said.
“Different how?”
“You hum while you cook.”
“Is that a crime?”
She laughed.
“No. But you haven’t hummed since Mom died.”
I stopped cutting the carrots.
Emily came closer and touched my shoulder.
“Dad, are you seeing someone?”
I hesitated.
Then I told her about Anna.
Emily listened without interrupting. When I finished, she smiled in a way that reminded me of Margaret.
“I think Mom would want you to be happy.”
The words nearly brought me to tears.
My son, Daniel, was more cautious.
“You’re both in your sixties, Dad,” he said during a phone call. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t see her. Just take your time. You don’t know everything about her life.”
