At coffee, Harold said he had graduated with me.
A few weeks later, he mentioned leaving school before senior spring.
When I asked which was true, he smiled and said, "Fifty years makes poor accountants of us all."
I let it go.
I even gave him a spare key so he could warm my car on cold mornings before I came downstairs.
"So you haven’t seen where he actually lives."
Peter, my oldest, was practical.
"Have you been to Harold’s home yet?"
"He’s in a rental for now," I said. "A bungalow in Rose Hill. His trailer lot in Millbrook is still being sorted out."
Peter frowned.
"So you haven’t seen where he actually lives."
Elise, my daughter, was gentler.
He proposed six months after our first coffee.
"Mom, I’m glad you’re happy. I just wish we knew more about him."
I heard his concern and interpreted it as doubt.
