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…”

“I know. I kept reaching for you in the middle of the night, forgetting that we can’t share a bed here.”

The casual intimacy of his words brought tears to my eyes. How many nights had we slept apart over the past 15 years, each believing the other was gone forever? How many mornings had we woken up alone, mourning a loss that was built entirely on lies?

“We need to talk,” I said. “Really talk about everything we missed, everything we lost. I need to understand what these years did to you, and you need to know what they did to me.”

Blaine nodded. “There’s a 24-hour diner about six blocks from here. It’s cheap, and they don’t mind if you sit for a while as long as you keep ordering coffee. I’ve spent a lot of mornings there when the shelter kicks everyone out.”