I pulled into my parents’ driveway and immediately noticed the line of cars cluttering the lawn. My stomach sank as I braced myself for whatever impromptu family gathering Dad was hosting this time. I grabbed my purse, locked the car, and made my way to the house.
The second I stepped inside, the smell of grilled meat hit me, accompanied by my dad’s unmistakable, booming laugh. I glanced out the living room window and saw him manning his beloved grill in the backyard, surrounded by people from his auto repair shop. He wore that same old grease-stained apron—familiar and comforting, yet somehow embarrassing at the same time.
“Amber!” Dad called when he spotted me, spatula in hand. “Grab a drink and join us! It’s just the guys from work.”
I sighed, kicking off my shoes. “Looks like the whole town’s here,” I muttered under my breath.
Before I could head outside, the doorbell rang. Dad tossed the spatula onto the table, wiped his hands on his apron, and announced, “That must be Steve.” Turning to me, he asked, “You haven’t met him yet, have you?”
I didn’t even have a chance to respond before Dad flung open the door and greeted the newcomer with a hearty clap on the back. “Steve! Right on time. Come on in. Oh, and meet my daughter, Amber.”
I turned and my breath caught. Steve was… striking. Tall, with a rugged edge and silver threads in his hair. Something about his warm smile and steady gaze made my heart flutter.
“Nice to meet you, Amber,” he said, extending his hand. His voice was smooth, and those kind eyes of his held me for a moment longer than I expected.
“Nice to meet you too,” I managed, feeling a slight tremor in my voice.
The rest of the afternoon, I tried to focus on chatting with Dad’s coworkers and friends, but my attention kept drifting back to Steve. He carried himself with a quiet, self-assured calm. Each time our eyes met, a strange, pleasant unease coursed through me. I’d sworn off any sort of romance after my last heartbreak, but something about Steve’s presence made me wonder if I was ready—really ready—to let someone in again.
As people started trickling out, I slipped away to my car. I got in and turned the key, only to hear a sputtering sound before the engine died. Groaning, I leaned my head against the steering wheel, deciding whether to call for Dad’s help.
A knock on my window made me jump. It was Steve, flashing a friendly grin.
“Car trouble?” he asked, lips curving with easy confidence.
“Looks like it,” I admitted. “I was just about to grab my dad.”
“No need,” he said, motioning for me to pop the hood. “Let me take a look.”
I watched him work with skilled, practiced hands. Within a few minutes, the engine purred back to life.
“There you go,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag from his back pocket.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling a bit embarrassed. “I guess I owe you one.”
He shrugged, his grin turning playful. “How about dinner? That’ll make us even.”
For a second, I froze. Was he really asking me out? But despite all my carefully constructed walls, I found myself saying, “Yeah. Dinner sounds good.”
Six months passed in a blur, and before I knew it, I was standing in my childhood bedroom, dressed in a wedding gown at the age of 39. I’d long ago resigned myself to the idea that love might not be in the cards for me, yet here I was, about to marry Steve.
Our ceremony was small and intimate—family and close friends only. When I reached the altar and looked into Steve’s eyes, an overwhelming sense of calm washed over me.
“I do,” I said, my voice shaking with joy.
“I do,” he echoed, his own voice catching.
That night, after all the congratulations and well-wishes, we finally had a quiet moment in the bedroom of our new home. My heart still fluttered with nervous energy and excitement. I slipped into the bathroom to change, letting the reality of the day sink in.
When I came back, I saw Steve sitting on the edge of the bed, speaking softly to thin air.
“I wanted you to see this, Stace,” he murmured. “Today was perfect. I just wish you could’ve been here.”
Confusion mingled with concern as I tried to make sense of it. “Steve?” I asked gently, stepping closer.
He turned, and I saw a flash of guilt cross his features. “Amber…I—”
“Who were you talking to?” I pressed, my heart pounding.
He took a shaky breath. “I was talking to Stacy. My daughter.”
I froze. He had mentioned her before, that she and her mother had died in a car accident, but I hadn’t known he still spoke to her like this.
“Sometimes I talk to her,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “It’s how I feel close to her. Especially on a day like today. I wanted her to know about you…about us.”
A wave of sorrow washed over me—sorrow for his loss, for the burden of grief he still carried. But I wasn’t afraid or angry, just deeply sympathetic. I moved closer, taking his hand in mine.
“You’re not crazy, Steve. You’re grieving,” I said softly.
He met my gaze, tears brimming in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I just… I didn’t want to scare you off.”
“You’re not scaring me,” I assured him, squeezing his hand. “We’ve both got scars. That’s how life is. But we don’t have to face them alone anymore.”
He pulled me into a hug, and I felt his relief as he exhaled into my shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I had no idea how much I needed someone to understand.”
I pulled back, brushing a tear from his cheek. “Maybe we can talk to someone about this together? A counselor? You don’t have to handle it all by yourself now.”
He nodded, his grip on my hand still firm. “I’d like that. I didn’t know where to start, but…thank you for understanding.”
I leaned in and kissed him, my heart full. Our love wasn’t neat or flawless—it was tangled with old wounds and lingering grief. But for the first time, I realized that was okay. We could face it all together, and that was enough.
Love, I realized, isn’t about finding someone unscarred—it’s about choosing to embrace someone else’s scars, and letting them embrace yours in return. And in that vulnerable space, I finally felt safe.
