I’m forty-one, and somehow I’ve lived two lives: one with my first husband, Peter, and one I’m building now with Dan — Peter’s best friend for decades. I never imagined those worlds would collide. Grief doesn’t follow rules, and neither does love.
For twenty years, Peter and I shared a marriage that wasn’t flashy but real. We raised two chaotic kids, endured creaky floors, botched repairs, and burned dinners — yet somehow, he made me feel safe in a way I didn’t understand until he was gone.
Six years ago, a drunk driver stole him from us. The weeks that followed were a blur: my daughter crying behind a locked bathroom door, my son withdrawing into silence, and me staring at Peter’s coffee mug like it could bring him back.
Through it all, Dan was there.
Dan wasn’t just Peter’s lifelong friend — he was family. When Peter died, Dan quietly showed up with groceries, tools, or just an extra pair of hands. He helped my son hammer away his grief and assembled bookshelves with my daughter when no one else could. Months after the funeral, he didn’t ask for thanks or attention. He just knew what was needed.
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