What stayed with me wasn’t the money.

I could recover money.

What bothered me was how easily I had helped Kelly isolate me.

Michelle had warned me.

Jason had warned me.

Instead of listening, I’d treated their concern like an insult.

One Sunday, Jason and I sat on the patio.

He stared into his coffee.

“I should’ve come to the wedding.”

I shook my head.

“No. I should’ve listened before it.”

He looked at me.

“You would’ve married her anyway.”

I smiled slightly.

“Probably.”

That made him laugh.

It was the first comfortable conversation we’d had in years.

Amy continued working at the house while everything settled.

A few weeks later, I asked about her mother.

She hesitated.

“Surgery is scheduled.”

“Do you have enough?”

Her hesitation answered the question.

I called the hospital billing office the next morning.

When Amy found out what I’d done, she came straight into my office.

“You can’t do that.”

“Apparently I can. They accepted the payment.”

She wasn’t amused.

“I didn’t tell you about Kelly so you’d pay me back.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

I looked at her.

“That’s exactly why.”

She shook her head.

“It’s too much.”

“Then don’t consider it payment.”

“What should I consider it?”

“Something I wanted to do.”

Her mother’s surgery went well.

Several months later, Amy told me she was leaving.

She had completed accounting courses she’d abandoned years earlier when money became tight. I helped with tuition for the final courses, but I made one condition clear.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

Amy smiled.

“You say that a lot.”

“Because you don’t seem to believe me.”

She found an entry-level accounting job.

On her last Friday working for me, she put her house key on the kitchen counter.

For some reason, seeing that key bothered me.

I had expected to feel proud of her.

Instead, the house suddenly seemed very large again.

She Came Back Without a Reason

A week later, Amy called.

“My mom wants to meet you.”

Her mother came over that Saturday.

The three of us sat on the patio with coffee for nearly three hours.

Her mother thanked me.

I told her Amy had done considerably more for me than I had done for either of them.

The following Saturday, Amy came back alone.

“Mom doesn’t need to thank me again, does she?” I asked.

Amy smiled.

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

She lifted two coffee cups.

“I was nearby.”

She wasn’t.

Her apartment was almost thirty minutes away.

I didn’t mention it.

The next week she came again.

Eventually, we stopped pretending there needed to be a reason.

Sometimes she’d call after work.

“Patio?”

“Coffee?”

“Obviously.”

For months, that was all it was.

We talked.

We played chess badly.

She complained about her new supervisor. I complained about my knees.

She asked about Susan.

That surprised me.

Most people avoided mentioning my first wife because they thought it would make me sad.

Amy didn’t.

She wanted to know what Susan had been like.

I showed her photographs.

One evening, Amy reached across the patio table and put her hand over mine.

I pulled mine away.

She frowned.

“What?”

“Amy.”

“Dennis.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

I stood and walked toward the railing.

“I’m forty-five years older than you.”

“I can subtract.”

“I used to employ you.”

She stayed quiet.

“I helped your mother. I helped with school. There’s too much mixed into this.”

Amy put down her coffee.

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

“I think gratitude can feel like something else.”

That hurt her.

I could see it.

But she didn’t argue.

She picked up her purse.

At the patio door, she turned around.

“If you lost every dollar tomorrow, I’d still come back the next day and drink coffee with you.”

Then she left.

I stood outside for a long time.

The next evening, I called her.

“Patio?”

There was a pause.

Then she laughed.

“Coffee?”

“Obviously.”

I Didn’t Have to Be Younger With Her

We started dating slowly.

Nothing about it looked like my first year with Kelly.

Amy didn’t want expensive trips.

Our first proper date was at a small Italian restaurant where the tables were too close together and I spilled sauce on my shirt.

Amy laughed so hard she nearly dropped her fork.

We went grocery shopping.

We played chess.

Sometimes she came over and read while I watched baseball.

Michelle was cautious.

Jason was even more cautious.

I couldn’t blame either of them.

One evening, Michelle pulled me aside.

“Dad, are you sure?”

“No.”

She blinked.

I smiled.

“I wasn’t sure about your mother after our third date either.”

Michelle looked toward the kitchen, where Amy was arguing with Jason about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

Then she smiled.

Over time, my children stopped watching Amy and started watching me.

With Kelly, I had always tried to keep up.

Long dinners. Late nights. Trips I didn’t really want to take.

I hated admitting I was tired.

With Amy, if my back hurt, I said my back hurt.

If I forgot something, she reminded me without making it a joke.

If I wanted to be home by nine, we were home by nine.

I wasn’t trying to prove I was still young.

I was simply seventy-five.

On my seventy-fifth birthday, I took Amy onto the patio.

The same table was there.

Two coffee mugs sat between us.

I had a small ring box in my pocket.

“Amy.”

She looked at me.

I opened the box.

For once, she had nothing to say.

“I can’t promise you fifty years.”

Her eyes filled.

“Dennis—”

“I don’t know if I can promise twenty.”

She reached for my hand.

“Nobody can promise tomorrow.”

I nodded toward the ring.

“Is that a yes?”

She laughed.

“Yes.”

Three months later, we married in my backyard.

Small ceremony.

No ballroom.

No expensive fundraiser.

Michelle stood beside Amy.

Jason helped me with my tie because my hands wouldn’t cooperate.

Amy’s mother sat in the first row, healthy enough to complain that the sun was in her eyes.

I was seventy-six.

People undoubtedly had opinions.

For once, I didn’t care.

That evening, after everyone left, I found the old plastic medicine organizer in a drawer.

I almost threw it away.

Instead, I filled it myself and placed it beside the coffee maker.

The next morning, Amy walked into the kitchen.

She looked at the organizer.

Then at me.

“Did you take your medication?”

Years earlier, hearing that question from my wife had made me look twice at every pill.

Now I picked up my coffee.

“Yes.”

Amy narrowed her eyes.

“Dennis.”

I laughed.

“I’m serious. I took it.”

She kissed my cheek and carried her coffee toward the patio.

I followed her outside.

The house was the same one I’d returned to after Susan died, when I used to set down my suitcase and hear nothing.

Now there were two coffee mugs on the patio table.

And when Amy asked whether I’d taken my medicine, I knew she wasn’t waiting for my life to end.

She was hoping, just like I was, that we still had plenty of mornings left.