For nearly half a century, my birthday followed the same quiet rhythm. No parties, no candles at home—just a careful walk to a small diner and a familiar booth that held the beginning of my entire life. On my 85th birthday, I buttoned my coat, steadied myself, and made the slow trip to Marigold’s Diner, just as I had every year before. That booth wasn’t special because of the food or the view, but because it was where I first met Peter, the man who became my husband, my partner, and the center of my world. Even after loss thinned...
Continues…