He wanted me to know why he could not move on, and why he had never blamed the women who left.

I read the one with my name on it at the table. It was three pages. The last line said he was sorry he had let grief become a room he kept walking back into on purpose.

We stopped going to that restaurant. I took him somewhere new, somewhere with no photographs and no ghosts, and he met a woman named Adaeze at a garden club that spring, and last year, at seventy-two, he called her for a second date himself.

The scratched photograph is at my house now. He asked me to keep it. Both sisters are in it, and my mother, and him, all young, all before.

He spent ten years mistaking loyalty to the dead for love, and returning to the one booth that would keep him faithful to it. What he needed was not another first date. He needed one person to sit across from him and finally see the whole of what he was carrying. I did. And the day he stopped hiding it under a table was the day he was finally free to begin.