My twenties, thirties, and most of my forties had belonged to my parents after their car crash.
My twenties, thirties, and most of my forties had belonged to my parents after their car crash. Wheelchairs, prescriptions, sponge baths. Love, the romantic kind, had knocked on other doors.
Then came Daniel.
He came in every Thursday at four looking for something dense and mechanical, then stayed until closing with those calloused hands, quiet eyes, and a laugh that caught both of us off guard the first time it slipped out.
“Margaret,” he murmured one Thursday, sliding a book across the counter, “do you ever read these, or do you just judge the men who do?”
“I judge.” I tapped the spine. “Silently. It’s a librarian’s privilege.”
Daniel grinned.
“What’s the verdict on me?”
“Still pending!”
