“I don’t know. Maybe this is ridiculous at my age.”
I crossed the kitchen and hugged him.
Dad remained stiff for a moment.
Then he wrapped his arms around me.
“I think Mom would approve,” I said.
“I hope so.”
His voice was quiet.
Soon, he began meeting women.
He told me about each one before the date.
The first was a librarian named Ruth who loved old detective novels.
The second owned a small pie shop.
The third volunteered at an animal rescue center.
A fourth taught music lessons.
A fifth worked as an office manager.
The sixth was a retired physical therapist who enjoyed hiking.
Dad sounded hopeful every time.
He cleaned his car.
Ironed his shirt.
Asked whether his shoes looked too formal.
He never acted like a man hunting for someone younger or more glamorous.
He wanted companionship.
Someone to have dinner with.
Someone to call when he heard a terrible joke.
Someone who might fill part of the silence without trying to replace Mom.
But none of the women stayed.
At first, I assumed there was no mystery.
Dating was complicated.
People could enjoy one evening and still decide there was no future.
The first woman stopped replying after telling Dad she had enjoyed herself.
He assumed she became busy.
The second agreed to attend a weekend art festival with him, then blocked his number the next morning.
The third kissed his cheek outside a restaurant and said:
“I would really like to see you again.”
By breakfast, her profile had disappeared.
The pattern continued.
Every date seemed successful.
Dad called me afterward and described the restaurant, the conversation, and the moment that made the woman laugh.
He never sounded arrogant.
