PART 1: THE STRANGER AT MY TABLE

Four weeks after my husband John died, I began eating lunch every afternoon at a small diner two blocks from home.

After fifty-two years of marriage, the silence inside our house had become unbearable. Brenda always saved my window table.

One afternoon, a young man stopped beside me.

“May I sit here?”

He looked no older than thirty, yet the sight of him nearly took my breath away. He had John’s gentle eyes, crooked smile, and thoughtful expression.

His name was Carl.

He returned daily. Soon, our lunches became the only part of life I anticipated.

I told him about John, our children, and our grandchildren. Carl listened intensely. Whenever I asked about his family, he said he was an orphan and redirected the conversation.

PART 1: THE STRANGER AT MY TABLE

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