Nobody from my family came to my husband’s funeral, not even my parents or my best friend. They all went to my sister’s engagement party instead. But as we lowered the casket, my phone lit up with a message from my mom.
We need to talk now.
It was followed by 36 missed calls.
My name is Cassandra Mitchell, and I’m 32 years old.
I never imagined I’d stand alone at my husband Bobby’s funeral, staring at empty chairs where my family should have been. Not my parents, not Stephanie—my best friend since childhood.
The people who promised to be there in sickness and in health disappeared when those vows were tested. What I discovered that day changed everything I thought I knew about family, loyalty, and the true nature of love.
Bobby and I met five years ago at a small coffee shop downtown.
I was rushing to my nursing shift, exhausted after a double, when I literally crashed into him and spilled my latte all over his jacket. Instead of getting angry, he laughed and said,
“Well, that’s one way to warm up on a cold morning.”
That was Bobby, always finding light in every situation. He asked for my number that day, and I surprised myself by giving it to him.
There was something about his warm brown eyes and easy smile that put me at ease immediately.
On our first date, we talked for hours at a tiny Italian restaurant. He told me about his work as a firefighter, how he’d wanted to help people since he was a little boy, watching the fire trucks race by his window.
I shared my journey to becoming a nurse. Our mutual dedication to service created an instant bond between us.
Our relationship moved quickly.
Within six months, we were inseparable. Bobby proposed on a hike to our favorite lookout point above the city.
The ring wasn’t fancy, a simple solitaire that had belonged to his grandmother. But to me, it was perfect.
He held my hands and said,
“I don’t have much, Cass. But everything I am is yours.”
My parents weren’t thrilled when I called to tell them the news. My mother’s first question was about Bobby’s salary.
“Firefighting isn’t exactly a lucrative career, Cassandra,”
she said in that disapproving tone I knew too well.
My father was more direct.
“You could do better.”
They’d always expected me to marry someone with prestige—a doctor from the hospital where I worked, maybe, or a lawyer—someone who could provide the kind of lifestyle they thought I deserved.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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