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A spread of heat ran through me even now, a year later, thinking of that chance encounter.

As Reese collected Emma’s mittens, smiling at the slightly younger-looking guy, I was thrown right back to that day.

We’d been early, just like today, and after awhile, Hank had to go. Will Archer—a total stranger, and kind of a surly, grumpy one at that—must have sensed my nerves, because he’d offered to stay with me and the girls.

Will was a natural with them—he had two girls of his own, he’d said later. He chased Emma and Macy around, completely ignoring his constantly buzzing phone while he made them shriek with laughter. And he’d talked to me about everything and nothing all at once—tussling with me over things so ridiculous I’d had to laugh. I thought laughing wasn’t possible that day. But he’d somehow completely distracted me from one of the most terrifying appointments of my life. He’d stayed right up until it was time for us to go in.

“Thank you,” I’d said to him at the door of the office building when it was time to leave. I’d been overwhelmed with gratitude at this stranger’s kindness.

He’d nodded, suddenly serious. I never told him the specifics of why we were there, but he’d said, “I hope you get the answers you’re looking for,” as if he knew.

I’d never seen him again.

But I had gotten the answers I’d been looking for—Emma’s tests were all negative. Though we wouldn’t know for sure until she turned ten, when we could test for certain genetic markers to tell us for certain, it looked like we were out of the water. As I drove back home, sobbing grateful tears over the results with the girls asking why I was smiling and crying at the same time, I couldn’t help but think Will had been our lucky charm.

When I told Reese about him later, she’d asked me why I hadn’t gotten his number—or at least reached out to him through Hank.

I’d shaken my head, shocked. “Why would I ruin that perfect day?”

Besides, she knew all about Steve and what a disaster that had been. And she knew about my intentions to never wade in those waters again.

Across the park, Emma held her hands out for me—now in mittens, thanks to Reese. Her expression was an exaggeratedare you happy now?

I gave her a thumbs up and she ran off with Macy to play once more. They’d be off again in no time, I knew, but it was the effort that counted.

When I looked back toward where the men had been standing I saw they’d separated—the dark haired one was now chatting with Reese while the girls threw pebbles in the canal next to them. The other one was gone with his son.

My chest sank a little, which was ridiculous. I’d only been curious about him because he’d reminded me of someone else. A man I didn’t even know.

I looked down at my phone, guiding my thoughts back to Bella Eats.

For all the nail biting I was doing right now, I really was grateful for the blog.

It was Steve who’d suggested I try to monetize Bella Eats. He’d had all kinds of side products and services for sale on his blog.

It had made good sense—the money from the firefighter fund I’d received after Joe’s death would be running out soon, and besides the fact I hadn’t worked since before I was pregnant with Emma, I knew it would be a challenge as a single mom to go back to working in restaurant kitchens. I could do it if I had to—if one would take me— but with the long, irregular hours, and at the time no family living nearby, I’d wanted to try everything I could to do something with more flexibility.

So I’d gone for it.

I’d signed up for an ads service, began adding affiliate links, and sought sponsorship on posts. I went hard, leaving no stone unturned, and fortunately, had enough of a following already that I’d started earning money with it pretty quickly. Not a lot, but by about six months in, enough to pay my modest rent and stop pulling from the last of the firefighting fund money.

But reworking the blog to earn money had changed everything, and not for the better. When the blog was a hobby—my love letter to food and family—I didn’t feel pressure to curate every post and hone every word. Now, everything was a question. Would this wording entice a reader to comment and share? Better yet, could I casually mention how much I loved my whisk to get them to buy one?

But that wasn’t even the worst of it. The biggest problem—the one I was now trying to rectify—was changing the wholetoneof the blog.

Because Bella Eats had started out as more of a diary than a professional blog, every post had been personal. Along with all the recipes and food recommendations, I’d shared stories about everything from meeting Joe and getting married, to a week-by-week account of both of my difficult pregnancies, my brother’s move to London, and my parents’ annual trips to the two I’s—Ireland and Italy.

When things got bad—really bad, with the very lowest point being my husband perishing in that fire—I told my readers. Every hairy detail, they knew.

It was what I was known for. It was what my readers came to expect—drama, and especially heartbreak.

But that wasn’t me anymore.

I still loved so many parts about Bella Eats. Even its name was special: my beloved Nona, from whom I’d learned everything about food and cooking, called me her little Bella. My dad, her son, sang ‘Michelle-a ma Bella’ to make me laugh. It was even Joe who suggested Bella Eats, which I’d started a couple years after Nona passed, saying it sounded kind of like belly eats.

But I wasn’t the same person who started that blog. I wasn’t even the same person who kept it going after Joe’s death. My girls and I had a good, satisfying life together now. Sure, I still stressed about money, and the girls not having a dad, and all the million other things people stress out about. But I wasn’t the tragic figure I’d become on Bella Eats. Moreover, I didn’t want to be known that way. I wanted only to share my love of food with my readers. My quest for the perfect pancetta. The most melt-in-your-mouth eggplant parmesan.

I didn’t want to continue to feel like I was monetizing my grief.