My granddaughter Lily was the one who found it first, running ahead of me on the gravel path by Lake Harrison last Saturday.

She pointed at a brand new wooden bench facing the water. “Look, Nana,” she said. “It has your name on it.”

I walked over, expecting some nice local donor who just happened to share my name.

But when I read the brass plaque, my breath caught in my throat.

It said, “In memory of Diane.” Underneath the metal, carved directly into the dark wood, were the initials R.D. + D.D. inside a messy little heart.

Richard and Diane. My ex-husband and me.

I almost laughed, but it came out like a sob. I am very much alive, mind you.

To be fair, Richard and I split up over fifteen years ago. I spent a long, long time hating that man, and honestly, I had good reason back then.

It was a bitter divorce, the kind where you divide up the spoons and swear you will never speak again. We kept our promise, too.

Anyway, I just stood there by the water, tracing my name on the brass with my finger. The air smelled like lake water and pine, exactly like it did thirty years ago when we used to camp here with our daughter.

Lily looked up at me and asked why I was crying. I wiped my face real quick and told her it was just my allergies acting up.

But I knew I couldn’t let it go. I called him that night.

I didn’t even think he would still have the same phone number, but wouldn’t you know it, he picked up on the first ring. His voice sounded much older, a little raspy, but it was definitely him.

“Richard,” I said, my voice shaking. “I was at the lake today. Why is there a memorial bench with my name on it?”

There was a long silence on the line. I could hear his heavy breathing, and for a second, I thought he was going to hang up on me.

“I had that plaque made the year we got married,” he said, quiet-like. “I never took it down.”

“But you paid the park to install the actual bench last year, Richard,” I said. “Our daughter told me you did. Why would you put my name on it now?”

“Because you were still my wife,” he said. “You just didn’t live in my house anymore. I never wanted anyone else, Diane.”

Then he cleared his throat, and I could hear the nerves in his voice. “Do you think you’d want to come sit on it with me? Just one last time?”

I haven’t given him an answer yet. I am still sitting here at my kitchen table, staring at my phone and looking at the old dust on the counter.