When Daniel asked me to marry him, I truly believed the worst chapters of my life were already behind me.
Grief had hollowed me out once. It had taken the air from my lungs, the certainty from my future, and the man I thought I would grow old beside. I had survived that. Or at least, I had learned how to function around the absence it left behind.
I was forty-one years old, standing in the middle of a life I never imagined choosing—but one I had slowly, quietly learned to inhabit.
For twenty years, I was Peter’s wife. Not the storybook kind with dramatic gestures and constant romance, but the kind that builds over time. The kind rooted in shared grocery lists, late-night talks after the kids were asleep, and arguments that ended in laughter because neither of us could stay mad very long.
We lived in a four-bedroom colonial that creaked when the weather changed. The back porch always needed fixing, and Peter insisted every spring that he would finally repair it himself. He never did it quite right. I pretended to be annoyed, but secretly I loved watching him try.
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