Days passed in silence. Grief hung heavy. I stopped locking the door. Not from hope — just exhaustion. Then one day, a girl knocked. Early twenties, curly hair, lost. “Sorry, wrong flat,” she said. “Would you like a cup of tea?” I asked. Her name was Yara. She was tired and lonely — like me. She started visiting. We shared tea, banana bread, laughter, and memories of John. On my birthday — the one my kids forgot — she brought me a tiny cake. I cried, not for the cake, but for being remembered.

Later, Emily messaged: “Hope you’re doing okay.” No visit. No call. Just that. But I didn’t feel crushed. I felt free — free from hoping, from waiting. I started walking again. Grew basil. Took a ceramics class. Yara came for dinner sometimes. Not always. And that was okay. Then, one day, a photo arrived — us at the beach, smiling. Tucked behind it, a note: I’m so sorry. No name. Maybe it was from one of them. Maybe not. I placed it on the mantle and whispered, “I forgive you.” Because being needed is not the same as being loved. We spent a lifetime being needed. Now, I’m learning love is someone showing up — simply because they want to. If you feel forgotten: leave the door open. Not for who left, but for who might still come.