I’m 64, divorced, and the kind of woman who keeps her calendar stuffed so the quiet can’t get a foothold. My daughter, Melissa, calls it “productive denial.” My son, Jordan, says nothing, but he watches me the way you watch weather that might turn. I volunteer because it gives my hands something to do and my heart somewhere to go.
Food drives, coat collections, church suppers, school raffles—anything that feels useful. Helping strangers is oddly safer than sitting still with my own memories. Valentine’s Day was coming, and Cedar Grove needed volunteers to write cards for residents who got none.
The activity room buzzed with soft chatter and the scratching of pens. Paper hearts lay everywhere like fallen leaves, and the coffee smelled burnt in that communal way that always makes me think of fundraisers. Marla, the coordinator, wore a tidy bun and an exhausted smile.
She handed each of us a stack of blank cards and a printed list of residents’ full names. “So the envelopes go to the right doors,” she said. “Some folks here don’t get visitors,” she added, tapping her clipboard.“Your words might be their only Valentine.” I nodded, sat down, and didn’t rush.
I wasn’t hunting for nostalgia. I scanned the list like you scan ingredients, looking for nothing that might upset your stomach. Then my eyes snagged on a name, and everything inside me tightened.
Richard. Same surname. Same middle initial.
My pen paused midair. I told myself it had to be a coincidence; Richard is common, and people share names all the time. But my fingers shook, the way they used to shake before finals or first dates.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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