My name is Margaret Henley. I was sixty-seven, widowed for three years, and living quietly in the house where my husband Robert and I had raised our children. One Sunday in March, my daughter Clara asked me, \u201cMom, when was the last time you did something just because it made you happy?\u201d I had no answer. I realized I had slowly stopped living beyond my familiar routines.<\/p>\n
That evening, I searched online for somewhere I had always wanted to visit. I found photographs of Malta\u2014the blue Mediterranean, ancient streets, and golden stone of Valletta. Without thinking too carefully, I booked a ticket. I made myself one promise: for one week, I would say yes. Yes to unfamiliar food, conversations with strangers, unexpected adventures, and most importantly, yes to life.<\/p>\n
In Malta, I met David, a seventy-year-old architect from Edinburgh. I had gotten lost with an upside-down map, and he laughed before offering to help. We had coffee, talked for hours, and discovered that we were both widowed. His wife, Moira, had died four years earlier. He told me she had made him promise to keep traveling after she was gone.<\/p>\n
For the rest of the week, David and I explored Malta together. We took a ferry to Gozo, visited ancient temples, laughed over meals, and watched sunsets by the harbor. We spoke about grief and discovered that losing someone we loved did not mean we had to stop living. By the end of the week, something unexpected had happened: we had begun to care deeply for each other.<\/p>\n
On our final evening, David took me to a beautiful restaurant overlooking the harbor. The waiter greeted him warmly, saying, \u201cSo nice to see you again, Mr. Bennett.\u201d I immediately wondered why David had told me it was his first visit. Later, I overheard him on the phone saying, \u201cRosie, she doesn\u2019t know. I\u2019m going to tell her tonight. She deserves to know the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n
When David returned, I confronted him. He admitted he had not been completely honest. Rosie, he explained, was his twenty-eight-year-old daughter. She had sent him to Malta because she worried that, after Moira\u2019s death, he had stopped living. She had asked him the same question Clara had asked me: \u201cWhen was the last time you did something just because it made you happy?\u201d<\/p>\n
Rosie had been calling David every day, asking about me and encouraging him to tell me the truth. David said he had hoped this trip might lead to something more. Then he asked whether I would be willing to continue seeing him after we returned home. I realized I wasn\u2019t angry. I had discovered that grief and happiness could exist together.<\/p>\n
That night, I called Clara. She immediately noticed something had changed in my voice. \u201cWhat happened?\u201d she asked. I smiled and said, \u201cI said yes to things.\u201d I had traveled alone, met a stranger, laughed again, and opened my heart without betraying the love I had shared with Robert. The week in Malta was ending, but my yes was not. For the first time in years, I was ready to see what life might bring.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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