A Stranger Left an Envelope Beside My Bed on My Sixty-Second Birthday—Then I Found His Photograph with My Son
“Mom, you can’t expect me to remember every conversation we ever had.”
“No,” I said.
“Apparently only I am expected to do that.”
His thumb caught his cuff and pulled it down.
“Please don’t make this into something it isn’t.”
I followed him to the checkout.
He paid for the groceries.
I thanked him because I had been trained by a lifetime of small courtesies, and those habits did not vanish just because I had begun to fear someone.
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