He was forty years older, but still healthy, charming, and easy to talk to.
We had a few dinners after that. I told myself they were casual, nothing serious. He was steady, predictable—everything my life wasn’t.
It didn’t feel like romance. My heart didn’t race. It felt more like a quiet escape, a chance to breathe and not carry everything alone for a few hours.
Then one night, everything changed.
I had been complaining about something small—my daughter suddenly refusing oatmeal and insisting on expensive cereal I couldn’t keep buying.
“I only bought it once,” I sighed. “Now she expects it all the time.”
“You don’t have to live like this,” Richard said.
I laughed softly. “That would be nice.”
“I’m serious,” he continued. “Not just about breakfast.”
Before I could respond, he reached across the table and took my hands.
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