Months passed. Then a year. Slowly, I began to breathe again. Charles would come over for coffee, and we’d sit on the porch talking about Conan. He made me laugh for the first time since the funeral. I don’t even remember what he said—just that I realized I could still laugh.
One afternoon, he brought me daisies. “These reminded me of you,” he said. We talked for hours. Another evening, he arrived looking nervous, holding something in his pocket. He pulled out a small box with a plain gold band.
“I know this might seem strange,” he said.
