When my daughter texted me about having dinner, I expected pasta, laughter, and catching up. Instead, I found myself across from a man I hadn’t seen in over thirty years — my first love.

I thought widowhood was the loneliest fate, but I was wrong. The hardest part was realizing I’d stopped believing in beginnings.

Five years ago, my husband, Richard, died in a car accident. We’d been married over twenty years. He was my partner, my anchor. Losing him felt like being cast into an endless ocean. He wasn’t just a wonderful husband but a devoted father to our daughter, Lily. Watching their bond always made me fall in love with him again.

After his death, I shut every door to possibility. Dating was unthinkable. My life became work, quiet dinners alone, and weekends filled with silence. Lily noticed, but grief is a deep well — easier to sit in darkness than to climb toward light.

So when Lily texted, “Mom, I’m in town! Let’s get dinner!” I was thrilled. I dressed up, even dabbed on jasmine perfume — Richard’s last anniversary gift to me.

The cozy Italian restaurant smelled of garlic bread and hope. I waited, smiling at the thought of hugging Lily, until my phone buzzed: “Mom, don’t be mad. I’m not coming. I set you up on a date.”

Mortified, I was ready to leave when the door opened. A tall man with silver in his dark hair walked in. Our eyes met — warm brown, achingly familiar. My breath caught. Michael. My first love.

We talked for hours, sharing stories of love and loss. His marriage had ended; mine had been cut short. At one point, he reached for my hand and said softly, “I never really forgot you, Anna.”

Later, Lily confessed she’d found him on a dating site and pretended to be me, even booking the restaurant. She just wanted me to live and laugh again — and damn it, she was right.

Now, Michael and I are taking it slow. Not with the wild passion of teenagers, but with something deeper. We cook together, dream about travel, and love each other fiercely, flaws and all.

I never thought love could find me twice. Yet here I am — fifty years old, a widow, a mother… and maybe, just maybe, a woman falling in love again.