My husband invited a coworker to our 35th anniversary dinner because he wanted to “teach me a lesson” about loyalty. He expected me to leave in tears after humiliating me in front of the entire restaurant. Instead five minutes later, a stranger quietly stood up and turned Peter’s lesson back on him.
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Peter used to say kindness was the most expensive habit a person could have.
“You spend your whole life giving pieces of yourself away,” he’d mutter whenever I came home late. “One day you’ll realize none of those people even remember your name.”
Peter used to say kindness was the most expensive habit a person could have.
For years, I smiled and let the comment drift past me.
There wasn’t much point arguing.
After 35 years of marriage, I knew exactly which battles were worth fighting and which ones simply exhausted everyone involved.
So every Wednesday evening, I still drove to the local community hall with two slow cookers balanced carefully in the back of my SUV.
There wasn’t much point arguing.
Some weeks it was chicken noodle soup.
Some weeks beef stew.
When money was tight, vegetable soup with homemade bread.
Nobody there cared what was on the menu.
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Most of the people came because somebody remembered they existed.
Nobody there cared what was on the menu.
There was Mr. Callahan, who always insisted his arthritis wasn’t getting worse, even though I noticed he winced every time he lifted his spoon.
Mrs. Dorsey never forgot to tell me stories about the husband she’d lost 16 years earlier.