evenings.
I bought flowers for my kitchen table just because. I started reclaiming the little bits of joy Peter had chipped away over the years, one soft moment at a time.
“Hi.
You probably don’t remember me, but I was one of the servers at your wedding. I saw what happened. I just wanted to say, you didn’t deserve that.”
I blinked at the screen and read it again.
It was him, the quiet waiter, he one who had handed me the napkin with that calm, steady look in his eyes when I was falling apart.
I read that his name was Chris and smiled, unsure of what to say, but I replied anyway. Just something simple: “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
I didn’t expect anything more.
But he wrote back the next day and the next.
Our messages turned into conversations. Light at first, books, movies, grad school stress (he was studying psychology and working weddings to pay tuition). Then deeper things as he told me about losing his mom when he was sixteen and I told him how I’d felt invisible in my own relationship.
He remembered the little things I mentioned and asked thoughtful questions. When I told him I had started painting again, something I hadn’t done in years, he said, “I think that’s beautiful. It’s brave to return to something that once made you feel alive.”
Eventually, Chris and I met for coffee.
I was nervous, but when I saw him in person, that same steady warmth was there and everything felt easy and safe.
Coffee dates turned into dinner. Dinner into weekend walks,Continue reading…
