I don’t want to tell the whole story in front of everyone.
He accompanied me to my door, waited for me to find my keys at the bottom of my bag, checked that the kitchen light was still working, and that there were still yogurts in the fridge.
Then he took a small, dog-eared card out of his wallet.
— Here, Hélène. This is my number. If you ever get let down again, or if you simply need someone to go for a coffee with, call me. Day or night.
My hands were trembling as I picked up the card.
“Why?” I asked. “Why all this for a stranger?”
He looked out the window for a moment, towards the trees in the garden.
“My mother died in a nursing home fifteen years ago,” he said, his voice a little lower. “We, her children, were always overwhelmed, always ‘too busy’ to spend the
