My son won the lottery, kicked me out of the house, and said: “You’re worthless! Go live in a nursing home.” I wandered aimlessly to clear my mind. When I sat down on a bench, a homeless man walked up to me, smiled, and said: “You look just like my late wife…”

But his eyes weren’t threatening. They were confused, almost shocked.

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“I’m sorry,” I said, gripping my purse tighter. “I don’t have any money.”

He didn’t move closer, just stood there staring at me with the strangest expression.

“Ma’am, I don’t want money. It’s just…” He paused, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. “You look exactly like someone I used to know.”

I studied his face more carefully. He was probably around my age, maybe a few years older, with gray hair that might have been dark brown once upon a time. There was something familiar about his features, but I couldn’t place it. The streets had weathered him hard, making it difficult to see past the rough exterior.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, softer this time. “I don’t think we’ve met.”