Learning To Laugh Again

My husband, Daniel, died on a Tuesday morning in November 2021. I was 48. He was 51.

We had been married for twenty-three years and had lived in the same house in Orange County, California, for seventeen of them. We had reached that stage of marriage where most of our conversations weren't particularly interesting to anyone but us. Did you pay the electric bill? We're out of coffee. The dog needs his medication. What do you want for dinner?

I didn't realize how much I loved those boring conversations until there was nobody left to have them with.

Daniel had a heart attack while getting ready for work. There had been no long illness and no chance to prepare ourselves. He kissed me in the kitchen that morning, complained that I'd bought the wrong coffee again, and less than two hours later I was sitting in a hospital waiting room while a doctor explained something I couldn't understand.

For months afterward, people were everywhere. Our daughters came home. Friends brought food. Neighbors checked on me. Someone was always asking if I needed anything. Then, slowly, everybody returned to their lives.

That's when grief became quieter.

There were no more casseroles arriving at the door. No more flowers. No more people sleeping in the guest room. It was just me and a house built for two people.

For almost two years, I didn't date. I didn't want to. Friends occasionally suggested someone they knew, and I always shut it down. I was still married in my head. I still slept on my side of the bed. Daniel's winter coat stayed in the hall closet. His contact was still pinned at the top of my phone favorites even though I knew exactly what would happen if I called it.

Then I met Michael.

There was nothing romantic about how we met. We were both volunteering at a food drive in Irvine. He was 53, divorced, and spent most of the afternoon struggling with one of those folding tables that should take ten seconds to open but somehow required three adults and a YouTube video.

We talked for maybe fifteen minutes. A week later, he found me on Facebook and sent me a message asking if I'd like to have dinner sometime.

I stared at the message for almost an hour.

My first instinct was no. Then I thought about something my oldest daughter had told me a few months earlier.

"Mom, Dad dying doesn't mean you have to stop living too."

So I said yes.

We met at a small Italian restaurant in Costa Mesa on a Thursday night. I arrived almost twenty minutes early because I was terrified of walking in and having someone see me looking for a man who wasn't my husband.

I sat in my car for a while before going inside.

I almost texted Michael that I wasn't feeling well.

But eventually I went in.

He knew about Daniel. I had told him before agreeing to dinner because I didn't want there to be any misunderstanding. Michael didn't avoid the subject or act uncomfortable when I mentioned him. He asked how long we'd been married and what Daniel had done for work. Then, thankfully, we talked about other things.

Michael told me about his divorce. I told him about my daughters. We complained about getting older. He told me he'd recently hurt his back putting on a sock and had spent the rest of the morning pretending it happened at the gym because he was too embarrassed to tell anyone the truth.

I laughed.

Not the polite laugh I'd gotten good at giving people when I wasn't really listening. I actually laughed.

Later he told me about accidentally sending a text complaining about his boss directly to his boss. I laughed so hard I had tears in my eyes.

For maybe an hour, I forgot to be sad.

And then I remembered.

It happened that quickly. One second I was laughing, and the next I was thinking about Daniel. I looked across the table and realized I was sitting in a restaurant at night with another man, drinking wine and having a genuinely good time.

It felt like cheating.

I know how ridiculous that sounds. My husband had been dead for almost two years. But grief doesn't care whether something makes sense.

I excused myself and went to the restroom. I sat in one of the stalls and cried as quietly as I could. I remember looking down at my wedding ring.

I was still wearing it.

I washed my face, waited until my eyes weren't as red and went back to the table. Michael could tell immediately that something had changed.

"You okay?"

I almost lied. Instead, I told him the truth.

"I feel guilty because I'm having a good time."

He didn't tell me I shouldn't feel guilty. He didn't tell me Daniel would want me to be happy. People say that a lot after someone dies, and I know they mean well, but I had grown tired of hearing people tell me what my dead husband would have wanted.

Michael just nodded.

Then he said, "We can stop having a good time if you want. I'm capable of being incredibly boring."

I laughed again.

And somehow that helped.

After dinner, he walked me to my car. There was no kiss and no awkward attempt to make the evening into something more. He gave me a hug and said, "I'm glad you came."

I cried almost the entire drive home.

When I walked into the house, I did something I hadn't done in months. I talked to Daniel.

I stood in our bedroom and said, "I'm sorry."

Then I felt stupid for apologizing.

Then I got angry.

"Why am I apologizing to you? You're the one who left me here."

I knew he hadn't chosen to leave. I knew how unfair that was. But grief isn't always reasonable. Sometimes you miss someone. Sometimes you're angry at them for dying. Sometimes you're angry at yourself for being alive. Sometimes all three happen in the same ten minutes.

I sat on the edge of our bed and cried until I was exhausted.

The next morning, my daughter called. I told her about dinner. She was excited until I told her what had happened afterward.

There was a pause.

Then she said, "Mom, liking someone doesn't mean you loved Dad less."

I don't know why I needed my 24-year-old daughter to give me permission to understand something that simple.

But apparently I did.

Michael and I had dinner again two weeks later. Then again. We eventually dated for about eight months. It didn't become some great second-chance love story. There wasn't a movie ending. We eventually realized we were better as friends, and strangely enough, we're still friends now.

But he'll always matter to me because he was the first person who showed me that laughing with another man didn't erase twenty-three years with Daniel.

It's been almost five years now. I finally stopped wearing my wedding ring every day. It sits in a small dish beside my bed. Daniel's winter coat is gone too. I gave it to our youngest daughter because she wanted something of his.

His contact is still in my phone.

I haven't been able to delete that yet.

Maybe I never will.

If you're reading this because you've lost someone you loved, I wish somebody had explained something to me earlier. You are allowed to experience happiness without betraying your grief. You are allowed to laugh at dinner. You are allowed to have a good day and not feel guilty about it afterward. You are allowed to meet someone new. And if you're not ready for any of that, you're allowed to not be ready too.

There isn't a correct amount of time.

Loving someone new doesn't take love away from someone who is gone. I used to think the heart worked like a room, and that letting somebody new inside meant I had to somehow ask Daniel to leave.

I don't think that anymore.

For a long time, I thought moving forward meant leaving my husband behind. What I've learned is that the people we truly love don't stay behind.

We carry them forward with us.