Christmas morning, I returned to the bench. No newspaper this time. He introduced himself as Robert and revealed he had known Evan long before we met. He spoke of construction jobs, shared laughter, and Evan’s middle name—details only someone close could know.
He explained that Evan, in his final months, had asked Robert to quietly watch over me. Then Robert handed me an envelope: official documents and a photograph of a young boy with Evan’s unmistakable eyes.
Inside, a letter from Evan explained he had a son from a brief relationship long before our marriage. Circumstances had kept them apart, and he never told me, fearing it would add to my pain while he was ill. Now, with the boy’s mother gone, authorities were seeking Evan’s family. My grief shifted to shock, compassion, and responsibility. I made a call that morning, choosing to remain open to the boy’s future.
As I left the bench, Robert repeated the words that had become a quiet lifeline: “Take care of yourself, dear.” And for the first time since Evan’s passing, I felt a fragile thread of hope.