About a year later, on a soft spring afternoon, there was a knock at my door I never expected. Stan stood there, suitcase in hand, no longer confident but weary and uncertain. He told me the job hadn’t lasted, the new relationship had ended, and he wondered if we might begin again. But time had moved forward — and so had I.
Behind me stood James — my husband now, a kind man who entered my life during the rebuilding and showed me what gentle love looks like. Stan’s face fell as he realized the life he’d left behind no longer waited for him. I wished him well, directed him toward a nearby motel, and closed the door.
