He talked to strangers in grocery-store lines.
He remembered the names of our neighbors’ children.
He sang while cooking dinner, even though Mom repeatedly told him that he was terrible at it.
Their marriage wasn’t perfect, but their love was obvious.
Then Mom became sick.
When she died, the house changed overnight.
My father stopped inviting people over. He stopped going out. He spent evenings sitting in the same chair, staring at old photographs.
I tried to encourage him to move forward.
One evening, years after Mom’s funeral, I finally told him something I had been carrying inside for a long time.
“Mom wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your life alone.”
He looked at me for several seconds.
“I already have you.”
It was a beautiful answer.
But it also broke my heart.
Because I knew that wasn’t enough.
Then one Saturday afternoon, I walked into his kitchen and saw him smiling at his phone.
It was a smile I hadn’t seen in years.
“What are you looking at?” I asked.
He immediately turned the screen away.
“Nothing.”
I laughed.
“You’re terrible at hiding things.”
Eventually, he admitted the truth.
He had joined a dating app.
I hugged him.
