Do you remember the first evening we met? I was twenty-two, unemployed, and too proud to tell anyone I hadn’t eaten that day.
You were working at the church supper, wearing that blue dress with the crooked buttons. I tried to leave because I couldn’t afford to contribute.
You followed me outside carrying a plate.
When I told you I didn’t have any money, you said something I’ve remembered every day since.
My hands began to tremble.
I turned the page.
You said, “Nobody has to earn a place at my table.”
I pressed the letter against my chest.
I remembered that night.
Not clearly at first.
Then in fragments.
A young man standing in the rain.
A borrowed coat with one missing button.
Dark hair falling into his eyes.
A plate of stew and two slices of bread.
I’d forgotten that Arthur hadn’t eaten.
I’d forgotten almost everything about the conversation.
But he never had.
I continued reading.
When I built our dining table, I made one extra place. You probably thought it was because I never measured properly.
But I wanted our home to be the kind of place you made for me that first night.
No one humiliated for needing help.
No one pushed aside because they were old or poor or frightened.
No one made to feel like a burden.
Tears fell onto the paper.
You gave me a place to sit before you knew I could give you anything in return.
Everything good in my life began there.
Love always, Arthur.
I unfolded the photograph.
It showed a small church hall more than fifty years earlier.
