Sometimes he’d sit at her tiny table and drink imaginary tea from a plastic cup.
For such a serious man, he looked ridiculous.
And I started smiling whenever I saw them together.
One afternoon, I was exhausted after finishing my errands.
Richard brought me a cup of tea.
“I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” I said.
“Then consider this my rebellion.”
Slowly, Richard stopped being the wealthy old man I
had distrusted.
He became Richard.
Lonely.
Gentle.
Kind.
And completely willing to let Emily decorate his gray hair with pink ribbons.
Then my landlord called.
He told me I had one month to move out.
I begged him for more time.
“My husband just died. I have a daughter. I have a steady job now. Please.”
He refused.
When the call ended, I stood alone in the pantry, holding my phone against my chest.
I had fought so hard to give Emily a home.
And once again, that home was about to disappear.
Then I heard a floorboard creak behind me.
I turned.
Nobody was there.
I didn’t think much of it.
I had enough problems already.
A few weeks later, I arrived at Richard’s estate and immediately noticed something strange.
Fresh flowers.
Candles.
Soft music.
The entire house looked like it was prepared for a celebration.
Richard hadn’t mentioned
any guests.
I found him in his study.
He was wearing a dark suit.
And for the first time, he looked nervous.
“Are you expecting guests?” I asked.
“Not exactly.”
He asked me to sit.
Then something happened that I never could have predicted.
Richard slowly lowered himself onto one knee.
My heart stopped.
“Nora,” he said, “I know I’m much older than you. Maybe you’ll laugh at me. But I don’t want to pretend anymore.”
He took a breath.
“I’ve fallen in love with you.”
I stared at him.
Then he asked me to marry him.
He was 72.
I was 35.
But I thought about Emily.
A safe home.
Good schools.
No eviction notices.
No wondering where we’d sleep.
