I Always Gave a Few Dollars to a Homeless Man on My Way to Work

Three months after cancer took my husband Evan, I was barely surviving—grief in every room, bills piling up, silence too loud.

I took a quiet job at the library, where I began noticing an old man sitting outside every morning. Worn coat, folded newspaper, sharp eyes. We never talked much. I gave him spare change, then food. He always said the same thing: Take care of yourself, dear.

One winter morning, he begged me not to go home—and called me by name. He said it was about Evan.

The next day, he explained everything. Evan had a son from long before me. The boy’s mother had died. CPS had come looking—for Evan, then for me.

Evan hadn’t betrayed me. He’d loved imperfectly and run out of time.

Now, grief wasn’t alone anymore.

Neither was I.