He shrugged, his grin turning playful. “How about dinner? That’ll make us even.”
For a second, I froze. Was he really asking me out? But despite all my carefully constructed walls, I found myself saying, “Yeah. Dinner sounds good.”
Six months passed in a blur, and before I knew it, I was standing in my childhood bedroom, dressed in a wedding gown at the age of 39. I’d long ago resigned myself to the idea that love might not be in the cards for me, yet here I was, about to marry Steve.
Our ceremony was small and intimate—family and close friends only. When I reached the altar and looked into Steve’s eyes, an overwhelming sense of calm washed over me.
“I do,” I said, my voice shaking with joy.
“I do,” he echoed, his own voice catching.
That night, after all the congratulations and well-wishes, we finally had a quiet moment in the bedroom of our new home. My heart still fluttered with nervous energy and excitement. I slipped into the bathroom to change, letting the reality of the day sink in.
When I came back, I saw Steve sitting on the edge of the bed, speaking softly to thin air.
“I wanted you to see this, Stace,” he murmured. “Today was perfect. I just wish you could’ve been here.”
Confusion mingled with concern as I tried to make sense of it. “Steve?” I asked gently, stepping closer.
He turned, and I saw a flash of guilt cross his features. “Amber…I—”
“Who were you talking to?” I pressed, my heart pounding.
He took a shaky breath. “I was talking to Stacy. My daughter.”
I froze. He had mentioned her before, that she and her mother had died in a car accident, but I hadn’t known he still spoke to her like this.
“Sometimes I talk to her,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “It’s how I feel close to her. Especially on a day like today. I wanted her to know about you…about us.”
A wave of sorrow washed over me—sorrow for his loss, for the burden of grief he still carried. But I wasn’t afraid or angry, just deeply sympathetic. I moved closer, taking his hand in mine.
“You’re not crazy, Steve. You’re grieving,” I said softly.
He met my gaze, tears brimming in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I just… I didn’t want to scare you off.”
“You’re not scaring me,” I assured him, squeezing his hand. “We’ve both got scars. That’s how life is. But we don’t have to face them alone anymore.”
He pulled me into a hug, and I felt his relief as he exhaled into my shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I had no idea how much I needed someone to understand.”
I pulled back, brushing a tear from his cheek. “Maybe we can talk to someone about this together? A counselor? You don’t have to handle it all by yourself now.”
He nodded, his grip on my hand still firm. “I’d like that. I didn’t know where to start, but…thank you for understanding.”
I leaned in and kissed him, my heart full. Our love wasn’t neat or flawless—it was tangled with old wounds and lingering grief. But for the first time, I realized that was okay. We could face it all together, and that was enough.
Love, I realized, isn’t about finding someone unscarred—it’s about choosing to embrace someone else’s scars, and letting them embrace yours in return. And in that vulnerable space, I finally felt safe.