My husband and I had been dining together at this same small restaurant for 50 years — and after his death, a stranger gave me a note that revealed his secret.

"No. On the contrary, I think I love him even more for it. Which is infuriating."

"I think he was hoping you would say that."

"Are you angry with him for that?"

"Would you like to meet me here again next year?" I asked, looking out the window.

"At the same time?"

"Yes. At the same table."

"I would love to," he replied, nodding his head. "Both my parents are deceased. I have no one else left."

"Would you like to meet me here again next year?"

"So, would you like us to meet here every week, Michael?"

He looked at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to cry. But he simply bit his lower lip and nodded again.

"Yes, please, Helen."

Sometimes love waits in places you've been before, silent, patient, and always in the guise of a new person.