The first time I met Daniel was at a coffee shop just outside Brighton Hill. He was juggling a phone call, a pastry bag, and a wallet that seemed determined to betray him. When his credit cards spilled onto the floor, I bent down to help gather them.
“Thanks,” he said sheepishly. “I swear I’m not usually this much of a mess.”
I smiled. “Hey, we all have those days.”
That’s how it began. Daniel had this steady, calming energy that felt like a balm to the chaos I was used to. He remembered I liked cinnamon in my latte, always texted to check if I got home safely, and never made me feel like I had to earn his affection.
After years of dating emotionally unavailable men who treated relationships as temporary distractions, Daniel felt like something solid. Like home.
“I have a son,” he told me on our third date over dinner. “Evan. He’s thirteen. His mom left when he was eight. It’s just been the two of us for a while.”
“I’d love to meet him,” I said.
His face lit up. “Really? Most women run the other way.”
“Not me,” I smiled. “Not unless you give me a reason.”
Meeting Evan was… complicated. He was polite, yes, but distant and guarded — like he’d built an emotional fortress with “No Trespassing” signs on every corner.
“So, your dad says you’re into astronomy,” I said one night at dinner.
“Sometimes,” he answered.
“I used to love stargazing. Maybe we could—”
“I usually do that alone.”
Daniel shot him a warning look. “Evan, be polite.”
“I am being polite, Dad,” he snapped.
He was polite — technically — but never let me in. He answered questions with a blank expression, always calling me “ma’am” like I was the school principal, not someone trying to connect.
One night, I offered to help with his homework. He looked up and said flatly, “You’re not my mom.”
“I know,” I said softly. “I’m not trying to be.”
He held my gaze briefly, then returned to his math. That wall between us didn’t budge.
Still, I kept trying. Daniel assured me, “He’ll come around. He’s had a rough time. It just takes time.”
I believed him.
We got engaged on a rainy November evening. He proposed at our favorite restaurant, hands trembling, eyes full of tears. I said yes, heart full of hope.
When we told Evan, he forced a smile and muttered, “Congratulations.”
For a brief moment, I thought we were making progress.
I was wrong.