The next morning, I woke up convinced it had all been a nightmare.
I kept telling myself that when I got to the church, he would somehow be there. He would walk through the doors with that familiar smile, tell everyone there had been a mistake, and everything would be okay.
But reality has a cruel way of refusing to let us hold on to hope.
As I pulled into the church parking lot, I saw his mom, his stepdad, his brother, and his sister standing outside. These weren't strangers to me. They were people I had spent countless days, weekends, and holidays with growing up. Seeing them broken by grief was the moment I knew there would be no miracle.
He was really gone.
During the service, I sat quietly behind his ex-wife. I struggled to focus on saying goodbye because I couldn't ignore the bitterness I felt. Watching what I believed was disrespectful behavior stirred emotions I wasn't proud of.
If I am being honest, part of my hurt wasn't really about her.
It was about what she represented.
She had the one thing I had dreamed of having years before—his last name.
That realization hurt in ways I didn't know how to explain.
After the service, we made our way to the national cemetery.
The drive was quiet until a song came on the radio.
I don't even remember what everyone else in the car was doing, because in that moment, it felt like it was just him and me.
Instead of crying, I laughed.
It was the kind of laugh that comes through tears.
Deep in my heart, I believed he was sending me one last message.
"You're going to be okay."
"I'm still with you."
Maybe some people would call it coincidence.
I call it love.
People often think a perfect love story is one that lasts forever.
I don't.
Our story wasn't perfect.
We made mistakes.
We hurt each other.
We walked away from each other more than once.
Life took us down different roads, and we didn't get the ending we had imagined as teenagers.
But our story was perfect for us.
He taught me what it felt like to be deeply loved.
He believed in me before I believed in myself.
He celebrated my successes as if they were his own.
He had a way of making me feel like I could accomplish anything, simply because he never stopped reminding me of my worth.
And the way he looked at me...
It wasn't something money could buy or time could erase.
His eyes always found mine with a love I'll never be able to put fully into words.
That's what I've chosen to carry with me.
Not the arguments.
Not the regrets.
Not even the heartbreak.
I choose to remember the laughter, the late-night drives, the letters from boot camp, the old rust bucket, the Harley, the smiles, and the love that shaped a piece of who I became.
People ask if loving someone is worth the pain of losing them.
For me, the answer will always be yes.
Because if I were given the chance to live this life all over again, knowing exactly how our story would end...
I would still choose him.
Every single time.
A hundred times over.
Forever in my heart HLH
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