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.

These days, birthdays make the atmosphere more somber.

And as I do every year since the death of my husband, Peter, I woke up early and got ready.

I brushed my fine hair back to smooth it, applied my burgundy lipstick and buttoned my coat all the way up.

Always up to my chin. Always the same coat. I'm not usually nostalgic, but this is different.

It's a ritual.

I'm not usually nostalgic, but this is different.

It takes me about 15 minutes to get to Marigold's Diner. It used to take me seven minutes. It's not far, just three turns, past the pharmacy and the little bookstore that smells of carpet cleaner and regret.

But the journey seems longer every year.

And I always go there at noon.

Because that was the time we met.

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