In 2012, when Andy and I met, he was only two, thrilled to make anyone’s acquaintance. Roger was ninety-two, grieving and undoubtedly frightened. He’d lost Carol to breast cancer, which had returned unexpectedly in her early seventies. His anguish was not hard to imagine, at least for me, a widow, but he also suffered from a lack of domestic skills. He was good at so many things—driving, sailing, finding just the right gift for a loved one—but I’m not sure he knew the washing machine from the dryer. He could feed Andy, but, except for pouring cornflakes into a bowl and slicing a banana, he could not feed himself. One especially thoughtful friend brought him a sheaf of menus from neighborhood restaurants that would deliver.journey-inline-newsletterinline-newsletter