After his release, he rented a room near a warehouse where he found work. His restitution payments arrived through the proper channel. They were small, regular, and never accompanied by a request.
We met for the first time in a café.
He rose when I came in, then seemed uncertain whether standing was another kind of demand.
I sat opposite him.
“You look tired,” I said.
“I am.”
He did not explain it away.
For several minutes, we watched a woman outside trying to fold a stubborn umbrella.
Then he said, “I keep wanting to tell you I wasn’t myself.”
I held my cup between both hands.
“But I was,” he continued. “That’s what I have to live with. I knew you were hurting. I used it.”
A muscle moved in his jaw.
“I don’t expect you to trust me.”
“I miss you,” I said.
His eyes closed.
“That doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want money discussed over dinner. I won’t sign documents you bring me. And if you ever try to make my age an argument against my judgment again, our visits stop.”
He nodded, looking directly at me.
“Those are fair.”
“They aren’t a punishment.”
“I know that too.”
When we left, I let him hold the café door. Outside, he asked whether he could call on Sunday.
“At four,” I said.
He called at four.
He did again the following week.
Through another winter and spring, we built something smaller than the relationship I had thought we had. It was also more solid. He learned to hear no without going silent. I learned that affection could return without being allowed to carry the keys.
On the second anniversary of William’s death, I finally opened a storage crate from his workshop.
Inside were narrow panes of colored glass wrapped in old towels.
I sat back on my heels.
