I retired at sixty-four and found the silence overwhelming. I had no family, no children, and no one checking in on me. Out of habit and need, I began visiting a small café each day. A kind waitress greeted me warmly, remembered my coffee, and listened when I spoke. Those brief conversations became the brightest part of my routine, and without realizing it, I began to think of her as the daughter I never had.
Then one morning, she wasn’t there. Days passed, and worry replaced comfort. Eventually, I found her address and went to see her, unsure of what I would say. When she opened the door—tired but smiling—she invited me in and offered tea, just as she always had at the café. That familiar kindness eased my nerves.
