We started with polite conversation, but I noticed how attentively he listened. It was different from anyone else.
It didn’t take long to realize he was interested in me.
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.
