Sometimes grief has a way of making you think the worst is already behind you. Then one unexpected encounter can unravel a life you thought you knew by heart.
Rain had a way of writing our whole love story, the kind people write novels about.
Ten years ago, it hammered the windows of a little coffee shop when a woman in a yellow scarf tripped over her own umbrella and splashed warm latte all over my coat.
So charmingly flustered, she apologized about 14 times, and I couldn’t even be mad. I asked her to dinner before she could finish the 15th.
“You’re insane,” the woman laughed, revealing that her name was Lily as she dabbed at my sleeve with a napkin that was already soaked through.
She apologized about 14 times.
“Probably,” I said. “But you owe me a coat, and I’m cashing in with pasta.”
That was us. Impulsive, ridiculous, and easy.
That was when we were in our early 20s.
***
Lily was pure sunshine, with an infectious energy that made everyone feel loved.
A decade later, Lily, 32, was still the absolute center of my universe.
“I’m cashing in with pasta.”
We had the house with the blue shutters, a mortgage we joked about, and two small humans who ran the place like tiny, sticky dictators. Our son, Leo, was five and obsessed with dinosaurs.
Maya, our daughter, was three and convinced she was a dinosaur.
***
Sunday mornings were sacred.
We would drag every blanket in the house into the living room and build these ridiculous forts with pillow turrets and tunnel doorways.
Sunday mornings were sacred.
“Dad, you’re the dragon,” Leo would announce, pointing a wooden spoon at me.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
TAP ” READ MORE ” 👇
