That became our first disagreement.
Harrison believed caring for someone meant removing every burden before they could ask.
I believed accepting help created a debt.
He had spent thirty-five years married to a woman named Margaret, who had died from a stroke four years earlier. He spoke about her without pretending their marriage had been perfect. They had loved each other, disappointed each other, raised children and built a life.
“I don’t need to erase her to care about someone new,” he told me.
I respected him for saying it.
For the next several weeks, he called every morning at precisely 7:15.
Sometimes he brought dinner to the diner after my shift. Sometimes we walked along the harbor. Once, he rode the bus with me because I refused to let his driver take me home.
He lasted four stops before admitting he had no idea where we were.
I laughed so hard I cried.
