One breezy morning, I decided to take a walk through the park.
The usual park sights greeted me — families picnicking, kids chasing each other, and joggers sweating through their morning routines. Then I spotted something unusual: a frail old lady, sitting all alone on a bench, weeping quietly into her hands.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said cautiously, “are you alright? Is there something I can do for you?”
She looked up at me with watery eyes and said, “Oh, young man, I have the best life anyone could ever ask for.”
This was not the answer I’d expected. Curious, I took a seat next to her. “That sounds wonderful,” I said gently. “What’s making you so upset?”
With a wistful sigh, she began her story. “I’m married to a 22-year-old man who treats me like a queen. Every morning, he brings me breakfast in bed — fresh waffles, syrup, and a latte just the way I like it. He massages my feet afterward to start my day right.”
“Wow,” I said, nodding, “that sounds amazing.”
“Oh, but there’s more,” she continued. “He cooks me a gourmet lunch every afternoon, serenades me with his guitar while I relax in the garden, and spoils me with candlelit dinners. He even writes poetry just for me!”
I was thoroughly impressed. “He plays the guitar for you? How romantic! That sounds like a dream. But why are you crying?”
She sniffled loudly, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Because… I can’t remember where I live!”
I bit my lip to suppress my laughter, but let’s just say it didn’t work. I chuckled so hard that I might’ve needed a tissue myself.
