I’m forty-one, and I’ve lived two lives: the one I shared with my late husband, Peter, and the one I’m building now with Dan — Peter’s best friend. I never thought those worlds would collide, but grief doesn’t follow rules. And neither does love.
Peter and I had twenty years of ordinary, messy, beautiful life. Loud kids, creaky floors, burned dinners, failed DIY projects — and love that felt quiet, steady, real. Then, six years ago, a drunk driver ended it all. One knock at the door, one name, and everything vanished. The weeks after were a blur: my daughter crying behind a locked bathroom door, my son retreating into silence, and me staring at Peter’s coffee mug like it might somehow bring him back.
Through it all, Dan was there. Not just as a friend, but as someone who knew exactly what to do without asking. Groceries, tools, babysitting, random projects around the house — he didn’t hover or lecture. He filled the gaps without fanfare. Months later, when I tried to tell him he didn’t need to do so much, he just said, “Pete would’ve done it for me,” and went on changing a lightbulb like nothing had happened.
It took three years before anything beyond friendship sparked. A late-night plumbing emergency. A joke under the sink. The first real laugh I’d had in months. Coffee on Sundays. Movies in an empty house. Easy, effortless conversation. My kids noticed first. My daughter rolled her eyes: “Mom, he’s in love with you.” I denied it, but I knew.
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