I first met him in 2010 at his aunt’s store. He wasn’t my usual type, but his quiet confidence and smile drew me in. I learned he was married with a newborn, so I backed off. We remained acquaintances, exchanging polite hellos for two years until I heard he’d separated from his wife. A month later, he asked me to dinner. That night, he kissed me, but I stopped him, unwilling to be a rebound. We lost touch again.
In 2013, he came back. This time, he was certain. We fell quickly and by September, we were officially together. It felt right, and by 2016, I was pregnant with our son. He was there through it all, promising to always be by my side.
But when I went into labor, he wasn’t there. I called. No answer. Texted. No reply. My mother held my hand as I labored, but the pain in my heart was unbearable. At 1:05 p.m., my son was born, and I got a message that shattered me: “I’m so sorry. He didn’t make it.”
His sister told me he had been in a crash on his way to us. He had been so excited. He left a voicemail saying he had a surprise for me.
A week later, I learned the surprise was a house he had bought for us. He had worked extra shifts, saved for months. The nursery was painted. A crib assembled. A note said, “Can’t wait to bring you home. – Dad.”
Samuel grew, and I told him stories about his dad. When he was five, he asked if this was Daddy’s house. I told him, “No, baby. This is Daddy’s love.” And I realized that even though his father was gone, he had left behind more than a house—he had left proof of love.
Love isn’t just in words; it’s in actions and sacrifices. Time isn’t promised, but love is forever.
