I had already lived what felt like a full lifetime. I’d loved deeply, built a family, and buried the man I thought I would grow old with. My husband, Robert, died twelve years ago, and after that, life became something I moved through rather than lived inside. I smiled when expected, answered “I’m fine” when asked, and saved my tears for moments when no one could see me.
My daughter used to call and check in.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I’d say.
But the truth was, I felt like a ghost in my own life. I stopped going to book club. Stopped meeting friends for lunch. I woke up each morning wondering what the point was.
Then, last year, something shifted. I decided I was tired of hiding. I joined Facebook, posted old photos, and reconnected with people from my past. It was my quiet way of saying I was still here.
That’s when Walter found me.
My first love. The boy who walked me home at sixteen, who made me laugh until my stomach hurt, who I once thought I’d marry before life pulled us apart. He sent a message referencing an old movie theater we used to sneak into on Friday nights. Only one person on earth would remember that.
I stared at the screen for an hour before replying.
We started slowly. Memories. Small conversations. But it felt easy, familiar—like slipping into an old sweater that still fit. He told me his wife had passed six years earlier. He’d moved back after retiring. No children. Just him and his memories.
I told him about Robert. About the love. About the loss.
Love doesn’t disappear. Sometimes it just waits—quietly, patiently—until you’re ready to find it again.