I ate slower after that—not out of defiance, but gratitude. The fennel salad lifted my spirits. The fish was charred just to the edge. Candlelight turned my water glass into a shimmering lake.
Later, the twins sketched with crayons. One held up a drawing: yellow circles for light, a window, and a stick figure—me—smiling at the table. “It’s you,” she said proudly. I placed a hand over my heart. “It’s perfect.”
As I savored the tart’s citrus brightness, an older man dining alone raised his espresso in a silent toast. I nodded back. Two solo diners, quietly acknowledging each other.
A Sentence to Keep
When the family left, the mother stopped again. “Thank you,” she said. “I hope I didn’t overstep.”
“You didn’t,” I replied. “You gave me a sentence to keep: a party of one is still a party.”
Her smile said she understood. The children called “Goodnight!” and paraded out the door.
Even the host, as I left, seemed part of the lesson. “Reservation for one?” I’d said earlier. Now he added, “My mom eats out alone a lot. I think about her.”
Carrying It Forward
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