She told me about two men she’d dated since Mark’s death. Both had been kind. Both had wanted something different from what she could offer.
One had suggested moving in together after four dinners.
The other had become irritated whenever she mentioned Mark.
She’d ended both relationships politely.
“I decided I was finished with romance,” she said. “I told myself that being independent meant never risking the kind of loss I’d experienced again.”
“And then I arrived with your daughter.”
“And then you arrived with my daughter.”
She smiled.
“I remember opening that door and thinking you looked exhausted. Not physically. Something deeper.”
I looked down at my glass.
“You were right.”
“I thought you were a man who had forgotten that kindness could be ordinary. You didn’t bring Maya home because you wanted anything from me. You did it because it was the right thing to do.”
She paused.
