The box arrived on Tuesday. It had my street, my building, but not my flat number. I opened it because I was expecting a delivery. Inside there were baby clothes and a card. The card said: "For your daughter. We are so happy for you." I do not have a daughter. I felt terrible. I closed the box carefully and looked at the name again. It was for flat 12. I live in flat 21. I carried the box upstairs and knocked on the door. A young woman opened it. She was holding a baby. "I am so sorry," I said. "I opened this. The number was wrong." She looked at the box, then at me, and laughed. "It has been a long week," she said. "Come in. Would you like some tea?" I stayed for an hour. Now we have coffee together every Sunday.