I arrived at my parents’ house, greeted by a lawn full of cars. Inside, the smell of grilled meat and Dad’s laughter confirmed another impromptu barbecue.
“Amber!” Dad called, flipping burgers. “Meet Steve!”
Steve, rugged and kind-eyed, shook my hand, leaving me unexpectedly intrigued. Despite swearing off love, I couldn’t ignore the spark. Later, when my car wouldn’t start, Steve fixed it with ease and casually asked me to dinner. Against my usual instincts, I said yes.
Six months later, I was in a wedding dress, marrying Steve at a small ceremony. Our love felt like a second chance. That night, I overheard Steve talking to his late daughter, Stacy, sharing our day with her. His grief was raw but honest, and I reassured him he wasn’t alone.
“We all have scars,” I said. “But we can face them together.”
Our love wasn’t perfect, but it was real, built on acceptance and shared strength—a reminder that love isn’t about being unbroken; it’s about healing together.
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