TABLE FOR ONE, PLUS SALLY

88 years old. Newly widowed. And still wearing her wedding ring.

You already know what day it is.
It’s Tuesday. Which means there’s a new guest.
A new seat filled.
A new story to tell.

This week’s guest?
Let me introduce you.

It started about a month ago. At CVS.

I was sitting near the pharmacy, waiting on a prescription, when I noticed her.

She was standing at the counter—tiny, silver-haired, wearing a pale pink button-up and holding a box close to her chest. She looked a little overwhelmed, politely asking the pharmacy tech for help setting up her new Libre glucose monitor.

If you don’t know, the Libre is a little sensor you insert into your arm. It tracks your blood sugar and syncs the readings to your phone.
The pharmacy tech told her they couldn’t help her right now. They were too slammed.

She looked disappointed. About to leave.

And something in me told me to stop her.

So I walked over and said,
“Hi ma’am. I’m a nurse—do you want me to take a look?”

She turned to me, her eyes soft and tired.
“Oh honey, do you know how to work this darn thing?”

“Not really,” I said. “But I’ll figure it out.”

She handed me the box. I read the instructions, cleaned her upper arm, and showed her how to line up the injector.

Her name is Sally.
She’s 88. Born and raised in Long Beach.

I helped her install the app. Showed her how to scan the sensor and wait the 60-minute warmup.
“It’s simple,” I told her. “And if you ever need help, call me.”
And I handed her my number.

A couple weeks later, she did.

She couldn’t get the new sensor to connect. So I stopped by her house on my lunch break and sat with her on the couch. That’s when she told me:

Her husband, Jack, passed away in January.
He was 91. They’d been married for more than six decades.

“I still put out his coffee mug in the morning sometimes,” she said.
“Just out of habit.”

We sat and talked until I had to get back to work.
Before I left, I told her, “If you ever want to grab dinner, I’d love to take you.”

Weeks passed. Life moved on.

And then one Saturday, I drove past her street on my way to grab a coffee, and something in me whispered:
Call her.

So I did.

She answered right away.
“Oh honey! I just got back from Idaho, visiting my grandkids.”

I asked what she was doing that day.
She said she was on the couch watching a murder documentary. I laughed and asked if she’d like to get dinner.

She said yes.

---

Saturday night. June 21st.

I pulled up to her driveway around 7:30. I knocked on her door, she greeted me with the biggest smile—and a gentle, warm hug.

Before we left, I handed her a banana pudding cookie from my friend Marie’s bakery. She’s diabetic, but I told her: “Just one bite won’t hurt.”
She took it, chewed slowly, and said,
“Well… that’s good.”

I told her I’d ordered us an Uber—my car’s a sports car, and I didn’t want her to worry about my driving.
“I’ve been riding in cars longer than you’ve been alive,” she told me.

I laughed. “Exactly why we’re letting someone else do the driving.”

When we arrived at Outback Steakhouse, it was packed. The host asked for our name.
“Monica, party of two.”

They called us a few minutes later:
“Monica, party of three.”

We both paused.

I looked at her and said, “Maybe Jack decided to come too.”

She smiled quietly. No words—just touched the ring on her hand.

We were led to a booth. They set down three menus, three sets of silverware.
I slid one over. “Here you go, Jack.”

We ordered the Bloomin’ Onion. Obviously.

Sally scanned the menu.
“I don’t usually order anything this expensive.”

“Get whatever you want,” I told her. “This is our night.”

She got a steak with coconut shrimp and a loaded baked potato and asparagus.
I got the steak, ribs and a baked potato with broccoli.

While we waited for our food, Sally told me she doesn’t go out to eat much anymore.
“Sometimes I drive to Denny’s in the morning. But since Jack passed… I haven’t really gone out.”

She told me they’d met when she was 15. Married at 19.
He was a firefighter. She was the heart of their home. They lived in D.C. for a while before settling down in California.

Then she asked me something that caught me off guard:
“How long were you married?”

I told her—three years.

And something shifted.
We weren’t just two strangers having dinner anymore.
We were two women who knew what it meant to love someone… and lose them.

She asked me how I moved on.
I told her the truth: it took me over a decade to love again. That grief doesn’t go away. It just changes shape.
Some days it whispers. Some days it hollers. But one day, you realize your heart still wants to feel something.

“That’s good,” she said. “You’re still young. You deserve that.”

Then she looked down at her hand.
“I haven’t taken this off,” she said, lifting her left hand. “And I don’t plan to. Not even when I die.”

I asked if I could take a photo.
She said, “Of these old hands?”
I said, “Of that kind of love.”

When Fallon, our server, came to ask about to-go boxes, I told her we’d need one.

Then she turned to Miss Sally and asked, “One large box or two small ones?”

And without missing a beat, Sally goes,
“Well, what kind of question is that? Of course, one big box. You see the size of that onion bloom?”

I almost choked laughing.
Fallon smiled politely and walked away.

“Sally,” I said. “You’re going to get us kicked out.”

She shrugged. “What are they gonna do, chase me out of here?”

---

After dinner, I took her photo out front—standing proudly under the Outback Steakhouse sign. She looked so radiant. So whole.

When we got back to her house, she said she needed to change into her tennis shoes for our walk.

Inside her bedroom, she showed me something special:
a quilt made from Jack’s old shirts.

Each square was cut from one of the pieces he wore most.
A woman in Idaho made it for her.

“Sometimes I lay under it,” she said, smoothing the fabric.
“Just to feel close to him.”

I asked if she could tell me the story again so I could film it. She agreed.

She looked down at the quilt and spoke softly. “Twelve shirts. All stitched together. That’s what I have left of him.”

I tried not to cry. But I did.

---

We took a short walk together, just two blocks.

She pointed out the route she usually takes each morning.
Showed me the homes she liked. The one with the overwatered lawn.
The one with the little dog she hears barking every afternoon.

Sally walks two to three miles a day. She’s sharp, fast, and steady.
And even though she says she’s not looking for love again, you can tell—she’s still full of it.

She just needed someone to share a booth with again.

Before I left, she asked how she could read the story I was writing about her.

“I don’t really know how to use all that social media stuff,” she said.

I told her, “That’s okay. Next time I come see you, I’ll read it to you myself.”

Then I let her know I’d be leaving for Europe soon—traveling for a month.

She smiled and said,
“Okay, honey. I’ll be here.”

---

Here’s what I want you to take from this:

Don’t assume that people stop needing connection just because they’ve gotten older.

Sometimes the simplest thing—dinner, a walk, a cookie—can bring someone back to life.
Even if just for one evening.

Sally doesn’t need much.
She just needs company.
A reason to put on shoes and leave the house.

And me?

I needed to see what real love looks like—
not in its beginning, but in its lasting.

So if there’s someone you’ve been meaning to call,
someone you’ve been meaning to visit…

This is your sign.

Make the plan.
Take the walk.
Ask the story again—even if you’ve already heard it.

Because when someone tells you the same story twice,
what they’re really saying is:
“I want you to remember this with me.”

Thank you, Sally.
For the onion bloom, the jokes, the quilt—and the kind of love that still lingers in the hallway.

We’ll walk again soon.

---

If you want to see the photos and videos from our dinner together, they’re up now on Instagram at @tableforoneplusyou.
Because some memories deserve to be felt and seen.
I’ll see you next Tuesday, same place.
Another guest. Another story.
And maybe—another reminder that connection can still find us in the most unexpected ways.