I pulled up to my parents’ house, already anticipating the chaos of another impromptu BBQ. I grabbed my purse and braced myself, knowing Dad’s auto repair shop friends would fill the backyard. As soon as I opened the door, the smell of grilled meat and Dad’s booming laugh hit me. He was flipping burgers with his ancient apron when the doorbell rang. “That must be Steve,” Dad muttered, giving me a quick glance. “You haven’t met him yet, right?” Before I could answer, he flung the door open, boomed “Steve!”, and clapped him on the back. My heart skipped a beat when I looked up at the tall man with graying hair and eyes that were both warm and deep.
I felt a strange flutter in my chest that I wasn’t prepared for. After years of giving up on finding “the one,” this ruggedly handsome man made me want to reconsider everything. I couldn’t stop glancing at him; he listened more than he talked, making everyone comfortable. Yet, I tried to focus on the crowd. As the day wound down, I tried to leave, but my car engine sputtered and died. Of course. Just as I groaned in frustration, Steve knocked on my window. “Car trouble?” he asked, already rolling up his sleeves. I watched his hands move with practiced ease. Within minutes, my car roared back to life, and I exhaled, genuinely grateful for his quick fix.
“I guess I owe you one,” I smiled. He simply shrugged and gave me a look that made my stomach flip. “How about dinner? We can call it even.” I froze for a second. Dinner? He was asking me out. Despite the familiar flicker of doubt, something in Steve’s eyes made me take the chance. “Yeah, dinner sounds good.” Just like that, I agreed. Six months later, it was surreal. I was 39, standing in my childhood bedroom, staring at myself in a wedding dress. We had a small ceremony, and as I stood at the altar, looking into Steve’s thick, emotional eyes, I knew I wasn’t second-guessing anything. We were husband and wife.
That night, after all the well-wishes and hugs, we finally had some alone time at our new house. I slipped into the bathroom, my heart full and light, ready to start our life together. But the minute I slipped back into the bedroom, I was greeted by a sight that shocked me. Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me, talking softly to someone—someone who clearly wasn’t there. “I wanted you to see this, Stace. Today was perfect… I just wish you could’ve been here.” I stood frozen in the doorway, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. “Steve?” My voice was small and unsure.
He turned around slowly, guilt flickering across his face. My heart skipped a beat. “Who… who were you talking to?” I stepped closer, the air thick with unspoken words. He took a deep, shaky breath. “I was talking to Stacy. My daughter.” He reminded me she had died in a car accident with her mom, adding, “Sometimes I talk to her. I know it sounds crazy, but I feel like she’s still here with me. Especially today. I wanted her to know about you.” I didn’t feel scared or angry. Just overwhelming sadness for him and the raw, living grief he’d been carrying alone all this time.
I sat down beside him and took his hand. “I get it,” I said softly. “You’re not crazy, Steve. You’re grieving.” He let out a shaky breath, looking at me with heartbreaking vulnerability. “I should’ve told you sooner. I just didn’t want to scare you away.” I squeezed his hand. “You’re not scaring me away. We all have things that haunt us, but we’re in this together now. We can carry this together.” I suggested therapy. He nodded, his grip on me tightening, saying he didn’t know how much he needed this understanding. We weren’t perfect, but we were real, and love was about sharing scars.
