At twenty-five, I believed love would arrive like lightning.
At thirty, I believed it would arrive eventually.
At forty, I was tired of arriving home to silence.
So when James asked me to dinner three weeks later, I said yes.
Not because my heart raced.
Not because I loved him.
But because for the first time in years, someone looked at me as though I still mattered.
James chose a small Italian restaurant near the river.
He spoke quietly, carefully, like every word had been weighed beforehand.
“I know I’m not exactly…” He gestured awkwardly toward his injured leg. “Most women’s first choice.”
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