“I said I was eighty-nine years old and I didn’t have much time left to look after anyone.
And he said, ‘Then make the time you have count.’”
Albert picked up his knight and moved it.
“Check,” he said.
I looked at the board.
He had me.
Three moves, and I was done.
“You’re still sharp,” I said.
“I’ve had eighty-nine years of practice,” Albert said.
“Your husband was the only one who ever beat me.
And he only did it once.”
I laughed.
It was the first time I had laughed since Thomas died, and it surprised me so much that I pressed my hand over my mouth.
Albert smiled.
“That’s what he wanted.
He told me, ‘Make her laugh.
She forgot how.’”
The money came back.
All $187,000.
Gerald sold his boat and took a second mortgage on his house to pay it.
Linda called me once, three weeks later.
She said she had left him.
She said she was staying with a friend.
She asked if I could ever forgive her.
I told her I didn’t know.
That was the most honest answer I had.
I went back to the retirement home every Wednesday after that.
Albert and I played chess.
He told me stories about his life — the real ones, not the polished versions he told the other residents.
He told me about giving up his son.
About spending sixty years wondering where Thomas was.
About the day Thomas walked through the door and said, “I think you might be my father.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you since 1957.’”
Albert never asked me to marry him again.
He didn’t need to.
