“I used to think my life was over when Abigail died,” he said.

“Now I have children arguing about whose turn it is to read me a story.

I suppose I was wrong about more things than I knew.”

We reached his door.

The porch light came on automatically as he stepped toward it.

He turned to wave at Rebecca’s house, where a small figure waved back through the window.

“That’s the best part of being old,” he said with a crooked grin.

“Every time you think you’ve learned everything, somebody six years old tells you something new.”