While cleaning one day, I accidentally broke open my husband’s diary. Inside, I learned he’d been married before—and his first wife died in a house fire. In five years of marriage, he’d never told me.
When I finally asked him, he admitted he stayed silent out of fear—fear of dragging her memory into our life. He told me he never stopped loving her, but loving me showed him the heart could hold more than one love.
Together, we visited her grave. Later, I found her paintings and wedding ring, which led us to her sister. She gave us a letter Callie had written before she died, urging him to love again if something ever happened to her.
That letter changed everything.
Today, our home has candles again, one of her sunflower paintings on the wall, and a love that’s deeper because it was built on truth—not secrets.
Love doesn’t erase the past.
It learns how to hold it.
