At 82, I Found

he did not know that. Margaret had labeled everything because Frank never paid attention.

Diane set the casserole down. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Enough.”

“That means no.”

He looked up, irritated by the pity in her voice. “I’m eighty-two, Diane. I’m not a baby.”

“No,” she said. “You’re a widower. That’s different.”

The word struck him harder than he expected.continue reading …