I happily pluck it from the table.

“Are you sure?” Denise asks.

“More than you know. This is exactly what I needed.”

She smiles. “Me too. Thank you, Daniel.”

*

She accepts my offer to walk her home, and even though she lives just around the corner, we decide to take the long way.

We stroll through Kingsbrook, admiring the old houses, and talking of this and that—her job, other genres that I might want to try, her travels, where we grew up, etc.

Eventually, the conversation slows, and I can’t contain my curiosity any longer.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Well, it’s a little personal and if you don’t want to answer, I completely understand.”

“Ooooh. This sounds interesting.”

“Well, I’ve formed a theory and I might be way off-base.”

“A theory about me?”

“Well, it’s more of a general theory, but … yes.”

“I know so much about you. It only seems fair. Ask away.”

“Okay. Here goes … I sort of feel like anyone who has been through the kind of loss I’ve been through, they can recognize it in other people. I could be totally wrong, but I’m pretty sure I see it in you.”

She stops and stares at me.

Oh no. I may have just stepped way over a line, but her expression softens.

She scoffs. “Is it that obvious?”

“I’m a writer. I’m very observant,” I reply in an attempt at humor.

She sadly smiles and we resume our slow stroll.

After a thoughtful silence, she takes a breath.

“It was back in Boston. I was married to a man I loved and he loved me. We wanted to start a family and we had a son—Toby. When he was seven, he started getting really weak. We took him in for tests. He had something called aplastic anemia. His, uh, his bone marrow wouldn’t … We lost him … and it wasn’t quick. It took a year … a year of helplessly watching him suffer … After that, our marriage disintegrated. We were scared to have another child because we worried what would happen. We couldn’t move on. We were stuck in that horrible place … We couldn’t be together anymore, even though we still loved each other … I’m sure we still do, but I haven’t spoken to him in years … I don’t even know where he is …” She shakes her head. “I think that’s why I became a second-grade teacher. Being around children the same age as Toby when he … left, it’s like I get to experience that part of him, you know?”

We continue walking in silence.

“It’s not fair,” I say.

She sadly smiles. “No. No, it’s not.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Not too many people know that story, so consider yourself lucky.”

In that moment, I feel closer to her than I’ve felt to anyone in a while.