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…”

“Do you know what the crulest part is?” I asked.

“What?”

“All those years I kept waiting for the grief to get easier. People told me that time heals all wounds, that eventually I’d be able to think about you without crying, that someday I’d be ready to move on. But it never happened. 15 years later, I missed you just as much as I did the day Richard told me you were dead.”

Blaine reached across the table and covered my hand with his. “Because real love doesn’t die, even when we think the person does. You were mourning someone who was still alive, still loving you, still missing you. Just as much.”

“Were you missing me every single day?”

“I used to carry your picture in my wallet until it got stolen along with everything else I owned. After that, I was terrified I’d forget what you looked like. So, I’d spend hours every day trying to remember your face, your voice, the way you laughed at my terrible jokes.”