When my late husband’s best friend asked me to marry him, I thought I’d already faced the hardest parts of grief and said yes. But on our wedding night, standing in front of an old safe with trembling hands, my new husband said words that made me question everything I thought I knew about love, loyalty, and second chances.
I’m 41 now, and some days I still can’t believe this is my life.
For two decades, I was Peter’s wife. Not in some grand, fairytale way, but in the real, messy, beautiful way that actually matters. We had a four-bedroom colonial with creaky floors and a back porch that always needed fixing. And two kids who filled every corner with noise and chaos and joy.
My son’s 19 now, studying engineering somewhere out west. My daughter just turned 21 and picked a college as far east as she could get, probably just to prove she could.