I sat down and stared at the warm slice of cherry pie sitting next to my decaf coffee. For three years, I thought I had been eating a kitchen mistake. In reality, I had been receiving a weekly love letter from the man I spent my life with.

Every Tuesday, he was still reaching out across the divide, making sure I was eating, making sure I was treating myself, and making sure I knew I was profoundly loved. I picked up my fork and took a bite. It was the best piece of pie I had ever tasted in my entire life.

When I finally finished, I gathered my coat and purse, feeling a strange sense of closure I hadn’t felt in thirty-six months. I walked up to the register to pay for my meatloaf and coffee. The manager was standing there. He rang up my total, took my money, and handed me my receipt.

Then, he slid a brand new, crisp white gift card across the counter toward me. “What’s this?” I asked. “That’s for the next 156 slices,” the manager smiled, his eyes slightly wet. “Brenda called us when she retired. She said she’d haunt us if we ever let you pay for dessert. See you next Tuesday, sweetheart.”