My name is William, and I am 61 years old. At present, I dont live in England, but its the place I will always think of as home.
Its been three years since I lost my wife, Catherine. After she passed, I remained in the house where we raised our children. It suddenly felt far too big and impossibly quiet. My kids live in cities far away, with families of their own. We speak on Sundaysthey visit at Christmasbut, for the most part, its just me and the silence.
For 38 years, I was a primary school teacher. I retired imagining Id have a proper rest, but the truth is I hadnt the faintest idea what to do with myself. The first few months passed with me parked in front of the telly, eating poorly, paying small attention to anythingleast of all myself.
When my daughter, Emily, came to visit, she was nearly in tears. Dad, you look like a ghost, she said. She was right.
About six months ago, I realised I couldnt carry on like that. I started walking each morning in the nearby park. Theres a bench beneath a grand old oak tree, across from a little pond with ducks. I go there every day. The spot is peaceful, but not lonely. Its alive.
A couple of months back, I started noticing a woman. She always wears a bright jumper (regardless of the weather), short silver hair, and large glasses. Wed sit on opposite benches and only ever exchange a nod.
Then, one morning, she sat beside me.
Is this your bench? she asked, smiling.
Not exactly. I just always sit here, I replied.
Well, come sit with me, then. Theres room for two.
Thats how it began.
I told her about Catherine. Her fondness for ducks. How she used to say ducks were free, but they chose to stay because someone looked after them.
She looked at me in that way only people do if theyve suffered a real loss.
Five years for me, she murmured. My husbandcancer.
Since that day, we have shared that bench almost every morning.
Some days we talk. Others, we share the quiet. One morning, she brought a thermos and poured me a coffee. Next time, I brought bread for the ducks, and we laughed like children as we fed them.
Her name is Helen.
One day, she handed me a hand-knitted jumperblue, my favouritethough Id never told her.
I see you here every day, she said with a smile. You learn to notice things.
We talked about life, about loss, about what it means to be here, now. That love cant be replaced, but the heart is so much bigger than we give it credit for.
Yesterday, for the first time in three years, I invited someone back to my home. I cooked using Catherines old recipe. It wasnt perfect, but it was real.
We talked late into the evening. We laughed. We remembered.
Before she left, she hugged me tightlythe sort of hug that reminds you, truly, youre alive.
Today, I found her waiting on the bench again, with two books at her side.
Ones for you, she said. Lets read together.
I sat a little closer than before.
And, for the first time in these past three years, I felt hope. I dont know what this is between Helen and meand Im in no rush to define it.
What I know is this: for the first time in ages, Im not afraid of tomorrow.
My name is William.
And a stranger on a park bench has given me back my desire to live.
Do you believe in second chances? Has a stranger ever become important to you? What do you miss the most when you have no one to share life with?
