I Returned to the Same Diner Every Birthday

turns, past the pharmacy and the little bookstore that smells like old carpet and faded dreams.

But the walk feels longer every year.

I always go at noon.

Because that’s when we met.

“You can do this, Marge,” I told myself at the door. “You’re stronger than you think.”

I met Steed at Marigold’s when I was 35. It was a Thursday. I’d missed an earlier bus continue reading …