I pulled up to my parents’ house and stared at the line of cars across the lawn. “What’s this all about?” I muttered, bracing myself for another family surprise.

I grabbed my purse, locked the car, and headed inside, hoping for the best. The familiar smell of grilled meat hit me, and Dad’s booming laugh echoed through the house. He was hosting an impromptu BBQ with the guys from his auto repair shop.

“Amber!” Dad called, flipping a burger in his worn apron. “Come on, join us!”

Before I could respond, the doorbell rang. “That must be Steve,” Dad said, heading for the door. “You haven’t met him yet, right?”

“Steve!” Dad boomed, clapping the man on the back. “Come meet my daughter, Amber!”

I looked up and my heart skipped a beat. Steve was tall, ruggedly handsome, with graying hair and warm, deep eyes. “Nice to meet you, Amber,” he said, offering his hand.

I shook it, feeling a strange flutter in my chest. He was the kind of man who made everyone feel comfortable, a natural listener. But I wasn’t looking for love, not after everything I’d been through. Still, I couldn’t help but feel drawn to him.

Later, my car wouldn’t start. “Let me take a look,” Steve offered, rolling up his sleeves. Within minutes, my car roared to life. “All set,” he said with a smile. “How about dinner to make it even?”

I hesitated but then agreed. Dinner turned into a whirlwind romance. Six months later, I stood in front of a mirror in my wedding dress, a 39-year-old woman who had long given up on love. But here I was, about to marry Steve.

The wedding was small and intimate, just close family and friends. As I stood at the altar, looking into Steve’s eyes, I felt an overwhelming calm. “I do,” I whispered.

“I do,” he said back, his voice thick with emotion. And just like that, we were husband and wife.

That night, we finally had some alone time in Steve’s house, now ours. I slipped into the bathroom to change into something more comfortable, my heart light. But when I returned, I froze.

Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed, talking softly to someone—someone who wasn’t there.

“I wanted you to see this, Stace. Today was perfect… I just wish you could’ve been here,” Steve’s voice was full of emotion.

I stood frozen, unsure of what I was hearing. “Steve?” I asked.

He turned, guilt in his eyes. “I was talking to Stacy. My daughter.”

I felt a weight settle in my chest. He had mentioned his daughter, but I didn’t know about this. “She died in a car accident, with her mom,” he explained. “Sometimes I talk to her. I feel like she’s still here, especially today. I wanted her to see how happy I am.”

My heart broke for him, but I didn’t feel anger or fear. Just sadness. I sat beside him, my hand finding his. “I get it,” I said softly. “You’re grieving.”

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he said, his voice shaky. “I didn’t want to scare you away.”

“You’re not scaring me away,” I reassured him. “We all have things that haunt us. But we’re in this together now.”

Steve’s eyes welled up with tears, and I pulled him into a hug, feeling the weight of his grief and love. “Maybe… maybe we can talk to someone about it,” I suggested. “It doesn’t have to be just you and Stacy anymore.”

He nodded. “I’ve thought about it. I just didn’t know how to start. Thank you for understanding.”

I pulled back slightly to look him in the eyes. “We’ll figure it out, Steve. Together.”

And as I kissed him, I knew we would. Our love wasn’t perfect, but it was real, and that was enough.

Love isn’t about finding a perfect person without scars; it’s about finding someone whose scars you’re willing to share.