When I mentioned that I was studying at night because I wanted to change careers, he asked about my classes weeks later.
Once, I arrived at work looking exhausted.
Richard took one look at me and said,
“You haven’t slept.”
I laughed.
“Do you always notice everything?”
“No.”
He paused.
“Just the things that matter.”
I should have been careful.
Everyone told me I should.
My best friend, Melissa, was the first person to say it.
“He’s rich.”
“I know.”
“He’s seventy-three.”
“I know.”
“You’re thirty-two.”
“I know.”
She stared at me.
“Then why are you smiling?”
I didn’t have an answer.
Because Richard made me feel seen.
Not young.
Not beautiful.
Not desirable.
Seen.
There was a difference.
He never pretended he was twenty years younger.
He never tried to act like someone he wasn’t.
He talked openly about his late wife, Margaret.
They had been married for thirty-nine years.
He told me about the children they had raised together.
Rebecca was the oldest.
Michael was the middle child.
Thomas was the youngest.
Richard spoke about all three with a mixture of pride and sadness.
“They don’t need me anymore,” he once said.
“Of course they do.”
He shook his head.
