08/19/2025
My parents spent 55 years together. They weren’t flashy about their love — no big gestures, no movie-style romance. Just two people who built a life side by side.
One morning, Mom went downstairs to make breakfast like she always did. But she never made it to the kitchen. She collapsed from a heart attack.
Dad found her. With every bit of strength in his aging arms, he lifted her into the truck and drove like a man possessed. He ran red lights, ignored traffic laws — nothing mattered but saving her.
By the time they reached the hospital, she was already gone.
At her funeral, Dad said almost nothing. His eyes were hollow, his hands restless. He looked less like a grieving husband and more like a man who had just lost half of himself. That night, we all sat in silence, trying to fill the emptiness with old stories of her laughter.
Then Dad asked my brother — who’s a theologian — where Mom might be now. My brother spoke about heaven, about peace, about angels watching over us.
Dad listened quietly, then said, “Take me to the cemetery.”
We hesitated. “Dad… it’s almost midnight.”
He looked at us with a voice I’ll never forget:
“Don’t argue with a man who’s just lost the love of his life.”
So we drove him there. Flashlight in hand, we followed him through the still night until he found her grave. He knelt, prayed for a while, then turned to us.
“You know,” he said softly, “nobody really understands love until they’ve lived a whole lifetime with someone. Your mother and I — we did it all. We moved when life demanded it. We raised you kids. We buried our own parents. We prayed in waiting rooms. We argued, forgave, and still held each other every single day. We never gave up.”
He paused, his voice trembling.
“And tonight, I am at peace. Because she went first. She will never have to feel this pain. She will never know the loneliness of living without me. I’ll carry that weight instead — and I thank God for that.”
We stood there with tears running down our faces. Dad hugged us and whispered, “It’s okay… let’s go home. Today was still a good day.”
That night, I finally understood.
Love isn’t grand gestures. It’s not roses or movie kisses.
It’s building a life brick by brick, storm by storm, and still choosing each other every day — until life itself finally parts you.
