If someone had told me three years ago that,s. near the end of my life, I would begin to distrust every glass of water in my own house, from every closed door and even from the smile of the woman to whose finger I myself had placed a wedding ring, I would have laughed.
My wife, Helen, had died eight years earlier. We had spent almost fifty years together. After his death, I had it all: a big house, a lot of money, investments and the freedom to travel wherever I wanted.
But every time I came home, no one was expecting me.
There were only empty rooms.
That’s when I met Vanessa.
She was thirty-six, tall, beautiful, and always spotlessly arranged. He was the kind of woman who made people turn around to look at her when she walked down the street.
We met at a charity event. He sat next to me, asked me about my life, laughed at my old stories and spent the whole night looking at me like I was not a seventy-four-year-old whose best years had already been left behind.
