Then he got sick. It happened so fast. One month he was complaining about a dull ache in his side, and three months later, the doctor in Indianapolis told us there was nothing left to do.

Pancreatic cancer is a thief. It took his strength, his appetite, and eventually, his voice. But it never took his mind. In those final weeks at home, he spent a lot of time writing in a yellow legal pad, tearing pages off and hiding them in his desk. I thought he was just sorting out the house insurance and the pension details.

After the funeral, I was entirely lost. The house was too quiet. The silence in the living room felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest. I didn’t want to cook. I didn’t want to watch the television. The first Tuesday after we buried him, I forced myself to drive to the diner. I sat in our corner booth, and when the plate of dumplings arrived, I just sat there and cried.

That was the day I met Becca. She was twenty-one then, working double shifts to pay for her nursing school books. She saw me sitting there with my head down, and she didn’t just walk past. She brought over two cups of decaf coffee, sat down on her fifteen-minute break, and just started talking about how hard the microbiology class was. She didn’t ask why I was crying. She just kept me company.

For six years, that became our arrangement. Every Tuesday at noon, I would walk in. Becca would have my sweet tea waiting. When her break started, she would slide into the booth opposite me, and we would share a biscuit. She told me about her exams, her boyfriends, and her dream of working in the pediatric ward at the county hospital.

I told her about Harold, about our trips to Nashville, Indiana, in the autumn, and how he used to plant beefsteak tomatoes in the backyard.

I thought it was just a nice young girl being kind to an old widow. I truly did. The world can be a cold place, so when you find a little pocket of kindness, you don’t question it too much. I just counted myself lucky.

But last Tuesday, everything changed. I had finished my lunch, and I went up to the register to pay. That was when Greg stopped me and told me about the prepayments. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped my brass purse. It clattered against the wooden counter.