That day, I was turning 62, and least for a day, I hoped I would be by my children’s side, but they were too busy to even call me and say “happy birthday.”
Truth is that following my husband’s passing years ago, I felt loneliness.
That morning, I stood by the window and admired the birds singing, it was something that made me happy, but still, I missed humans’ company, so I decided to leave my countryside home and spend some time in the town. Honestly, I didn’t know what I was looking for, maybe just a moment that didn’t feel so ordinary.
I wandered into a small bar with soft music and ordered a glass of red wine.
I hadn’t had wine in years, and I felt like I deserved one.
While I sat there a stranger approached. He was in his early forties. As he came closer, he asked if he could buy me another drink. I laughed and told him not to call me “ma’am,” because it made me feel older than I wanted to admit.
We talked and it felt like that conversation was all I needed to feel alive again. He told me he was a photographer just back from traveling. I shared stories from my youth, the dreams I once had and the roads I never took. For the first time in years, I felt seen.
Later that night, after one glass too many, the stranger helped me to a hotel.
In the morning, the bed beside me was empty, but there was an envelope on the small table. Inside was a photograph of me sleeping, and a handwritten note.
“You slept like someone who needed rest. I didn’t touch you. I only sat with you and made sure you were warm. I had a feeling your birthday hadn’t been kind to you, and I wanted you to have at least one gentle night.”
Below that, in smaller handwriting, he added something that made my breath catch:
“I knew who you were the moment I saw you. My father used to talk about you — the woman he loved and never truly forgot. My mother passed two years ago, and he has been alone since. When I recognized you, I didn’t want to walk past without saying something. If you still think of him… if you feel lonely too… please reach out. You both deserve some joy while there’s still time.”
At the bottom was a name and a phone number.
Later that day, I decided to make that call.
When a familiar, hesitant voice answered, I felt years melt away.
“It’s me,” I whispered. “It’s been so long. Maybe… we still have one more sunset left in us.”
For the first time in years, I felt there was hope. At 62, my life was just starting, and I was glad I finally understood that before it was too late.
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Bored Daddy
Love and Peace
