I was 21 when I met Paul in a downtown Lakeside coffee shop. He was 32, ruggedly handsome, with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that carried a world of pain. His wife had died eight months earlier, leaving him with two young children.
“You have the most beautiful smile,” he said, his voice heavy with longing. “I haven’t smiled in months, but yours reminded me what it felt like.”
At that age, I mistook grief for romance. I fell into his life, into his home, and three weeks later, I met his kids: Mia, eight, with a mischievous smile, and John, six, a whirlwind of energy.
“Are you going to be our new mommy?” Mia asked bluntly.
Paul grinned. “Maybe. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
I should have seen the warning signs, but I was swept away by candlelit dinners and declarations of love: “You saved us, Carol. You brought back the light.” Four months later, he proposed. His words left me no room to say no: “You’re not just marrying me. You’re choosing to be Mia and John’s mother. They need you.”
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