“I stopped visiting My Children Without Being Invited... And What Happened Next taught Me the Meaning of True Love”
PART 3
I started filling my days.
Not to forget.
But to live.
In the morning I walked through the park.
I met Roberto, a widower who was also walking alone.
We started drinking coffee together.
To talk about our lives.
Of our children.
From our absences.
He told me something I never forgot:
“The children don’t belong to us. They were loaned to us. And when they grow up, they return to their own lives. We... we have to learn to live with the echo of their laughter.
I cried that afternoon.
But not of sadness.
Of understanding.
I started playing guitar again.
In the park.
For no one.
Just for me.
One day, an older lady approached.
“It’s very good,” he said. Haven't he played long?
“Years,” I replied.
“You can tell I missed him.
I smiled.
"Yes. To him and other things.
She was named Marta.
I was my age.
She was also a widow.
He also had children who lived far away.
We started to meet.
Not every day.
Only when we both wanted.
No obligations.
No faults.
Only company.
