My Wife Left Me the Farm and a List of Instructions. The Last One Was the Hardest to Follow

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.

“You could stay and help me eat that,” I told her. “I’m not allowed to have a whole pie by myself. Doctor’s orders.”

That was a lie. My doctor has never said a word about pie.

We sat on the porch swing until the fireflies came out.

We talked about Arne, and about June. About Milwaukee, about night shifts in the ER, about the kids who grow up and move to cities and call on Sundays.

She told me she’d been divorced for almost twenty years. She said she’d stopped expecting anything from anybody.

“Me too,” I said. “Turns out it’s a lot of work, expecting nothing.”

She laughed. Then she leaned her head on my shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I didn’t move for a long time.

It’s October now. Ruth comes over most evenings. Some nights we cook. Some nights we just sit on the porch and watch the light go off the fields.

My son Kevin called last week and asked, very carefully, if I was “seeing someone.”

I told him I was seeing a lot of my neighbor.

He was quiet for a second. Then he said, “Mom would be happy, Dad.”

I know she would.

Last night, after Ruth went home, I opened the drawer next to the stove and took out the yellow legal pad.

Number nine was still there.

I haven’t crossed it out yet.

But I left the pencil right next to it.

And for the first time in two years, the house didn’t feel so quiet.

If you’ve lost someone and wondered whether it’s too late to let someone new in, I’d love to hear your story in the comments. Would you have taken the chance?