At sixty-seven, I had spent years believing that the most exciting chapters of my life were already behind me.
My husband, Michael, had been gone for four years after a long battle with cancer. For thirty-nine years, he had been my husband, my best friend, and the person I expected to grow old beside.
After his death, I became very good at being alone.
Then, on my sixty-seventh birthday, I made a decision.
I would take my first solo trip.
I chose Malta.
And I made myself one promise: I would say yes to everything that frightened me.
Yes to unfamiliar food.
Yes to conversations with strangers.
Yes to wandering down streets I had never seen.
Yes to laughter.
And perhaps most importantly, yes to the possibility of feeling alive again.
That was how I met David.
He was charming, funny, and unexpectedly attentive. We met in Valletta after I became hopelessly lost while searching for a small café.
“You look like someone who needs directions,” he joked.
I laughed.
“I probably do.”
He showed me the way, then invited me to join him for coffee.
I said yes.
That simple decision changed everything.
Over the next several days, David and I explored Malta together. We walked beside the sea, shared meals, visited old churches, and talked about our lives.
He was a widower too.
He told me about his late wife, Ruth, and I told him about Michael.
For the first time since my husband died, I felt something I thought I had forgotten how to feel.
Excitement.
On my final night in Malta, David suggested dinner at a quiet restaurant.
I followed him through a narrow passage into a dimly lit courtyard.
Then I heard a woman’s voice.
“You have to tell her before she leaves tomorrow.”
