Jeff, who is out of state for work, texts me a photo of a rental Jeep Wrangler, the kind with the roof panels popped out so the sky and wind rush in. A fun car, he calls it, grinning behind the wheel. It’s a welcome distraction as I try to find my own escape at the Jersey Shore with my son, visiting my high school best friend, Cassie. I send him a selfie with the ocean behind me, the color of cold steel. “Guess where I am today?” I write. “Visiting Cassie and her family at LBI!”
“It’s nice seeing your face,” Jeff replies in seconds. He says my messages are the highlight of his day, that I should stay a few extra nights if I can.
I’d love to stay. Pretend I live in one of the pastel mansions perched above the dunes, drifting from one sun-dazed afternoon to the next with the drama of my real life far away. But I’m lucky just to borrow Cassie’s guest room for a night.
Cassie and I walk the beach with our sons, her oldest and my youngest, both of them tossing a football between the surf and the dunes as I vent about Reginald, about the divorce, about the constant ache of it all. “Maybe there’s still a chance,” she says, her voice gentle. I don’t have the heart to tell her that hope is as thin as vapor, a mirage already dissolving. I love her for it, but I know she’s fighting a war I surrendered long ago.
For a few hours, the day is almost perfect. We eat sandwiches on the beach, our bare legs stuck to the plastic chairs, and I let myself be lulled by the ordinary pleasures. I want to freeze time like this, yet reality always has sharp edges.
The peace of the beach lingers for a few days, a fragile warmth in my chest. Then, the following week, my friend Joseph calls. His voice is flat when he gives me the news: Edward’s gone. Complications from a stroke. The fact of his absence lands with a thud, extinguishing the warmth. The funeral is Friday, and I brace for the collision of nostalgia and loss.
Jeff is a steady presence in the days that follow, his texts a constant comfort. Even Reginald sends condolences. It should feel supportive; except it magnifies the absence—of Ed, of my marriage, of the self I used to be. The old gang is the last thread to that past, and with Ed gone—the one who drew comic strips, making each of us a character in his stories—that thread is fraying.
The funeral is another reminder that everything can change in a heartbeat, that nothing is promised, not even the people you thought would outlast you.
On the day of the service, I text Jeff before heading out. “I’m going to the funeral now. TTYL.”
He replies, “I’ll say a prayer for you and for Ed’s family.” Then, a beat later, “Send me a selfie all dressed up.”
It’s a strange request. Not inappropriate, but oddly intimate given the occasion. I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror—black dress, the good shoes, hair tamed for once—and feel suddenly exposed. Still, I snap a photo and send it because I want to be seen, even if it’s through a screen.
“I knew you’d look great,” he responds, the words so sweet they sting. For a moment, I let myself feel beautiful, then shame rushes in, because who seeks validation on the way to a friend’s funeral? I don’t want to think about what Jeff really sees, or why it matters so much to me that he’s looking.
Still, I tap the heart on his message and head into the evening, the old ache in my chest replaced, for a moment, by something lighter.
The next morning, Jeff’s verse of the day appears: Matthew 11:28-30. He sends these often, wanting to “unpack” them as he calls it, peeling back layers until he finds the meaning beneath the words. This time, the commentary lingers on the contrast between the heavy load of Old Testament law and the New Testament grace Jesus offers. “Come to me,” he quotes. “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me.” Find a compassionate savior. One who encourages, loves, forgives, restores, strengthens. “His words feel like a relief to me.”
I read the verses twice, feeling something unknot in my chest that I hadn’t realized was tangled. I respond with my own take, how the Old Testament God always felt wrathful to me—jealous, severe—while Jesus speaks of someone kind. Approachable. Soft. I tell him that maybe Jesus was teaching us not just about God, but how to be with one another through the hard parts: stay loving through trials, allowing grace to guide the way.
Jeff’s response hums with appreciation. He calls my take insightful. “It’s refreshing to connect with someone willing to go deeper than the surface level.” He values depth, he claims, connection that goes below the surface. I read his message three times, something blooming in my chest that I don’t have a name for.
“It’s refreshing for me too,” I admit. To share my views without rehearsing them first, to speak without bracing for judgment. To be heard.
Minutes later, a selfie pops up—Jeff with bed head, grinning. I tease him, and he plays along, easy and unguarded. He describes his day ahead: piano music, tending to his plants, light reading. I lean back, the springs of my worn-out office chair groaning, and imagine the quiet he describes. The stillness. It sounds like peace, like everything I’m fighting toward but can’t quite reach.
Then the tone shifts midday when he sends a link to a website, confessing his addiction to buying plants he can’t keep alive. Over-watering. Poor drainage. The same root rot problem we keep circling.
I mention that I’m going to Lowe’s to get supplies, that I have a Dieffenbachia for him once I finish staging the house: tall, striking, green and yellow leaves catching the light. He offers to meet me there, to help with my chores, “as long as it involves extensive interaction.” I laugh, feeling the warmth of it spread through me. I can already picture it. He’ll buy new pots while we’re there, and we’ll solve his plant problems in the garden center aisle together.
But Lowe’s isn’t just errands for me. It’s replacing expired smoke detectors. It’s a ceiling fan that died mid-summer. It’s electricians and plumbers and the certificate of occupancy I need before I can list this house, before I can finally move forward. My to-do list is a mountain, and I’m climbing it alone.
When Jeff hears the scope of it, he doesn’t fix anything. He asks a favor instead: to pause. Take three deep breaths. He’s reminding me of my pattern. The overwhelm, the frustration that follows when I try to do everything at once. It’s such a small thing, but the gentleness of it nearly breaks me. I close my eyes right there in the parking lot and breathe.
In with ease. Out with difficulty. And for a moment, the weight lifts.
He praises my capability, my strength, that rest is coming because I’ve earned it. I hold the phone to my chest and let myself believe him. It’s a relief so sharp it borders on pain. This knowing that someone sees me, encourages me, cares about whether I crumble.
That evening, our conversation drifts from the usual banter into the fantasy of campers versus tiny homes, the merits of mobility versus minimalism. Jeff admits he’s been thinking about me and how much fun it would be to hit the road together, and the way he says it makes me pause, blinking at the soft blue light of my phone in the dark. I laugh, not just at the idea but at the gentleness of it, at the way he dares to say aloud the daydreams I’ve only ever permitted to flicker in passing.
The thought is sweet, that I can almost see us traveling together, admitting to him even though the image is blurry at the edges. He tells me how happy it makes him. That I’m receptive to the possibility of visiting the National Parks with him someday. There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s offering me a piece of himself he’s never shown before. I let it hang in the air, uncertain whether to reach for it or step away.
Because I once binge-watched every episode of every tiny home series, I send Jeff a link to a tiny house on wheels I’ve been obsessed with. He’s a fan of the concept but admits the logistics terrify him. He jokes that he’s not cut out for that level of responsibility, that he’d probably roll it into a ditch before we hit the first rest stop. I laugh, though a small, quiet part of me files the word “responsibility” away.
Even as I describe my fascination with tiny houses, a sharp twinge in my chest interrupts. Reginald’s voice overlays my thoughts, his old enthusiasm for simple-living echoing in my memory. We had talked circles around the same dream: a small, intentional home for the empty-nest years, a place where the only thing oversized was the possibility. There’s a moment where my longing for the past and my curiosity about the future cross wires and short-circuit. I keep the ache to myself.
Jeff pulls me back with a string of photos: retro campers and sleek Airstreams, the things retirees buy when they want to outrun aging. “Okay, this one,” I point out a trailer, teasing him about the size. “You could stand in the center and touch every wall.”
“It’s not cramped, it’s cozy,” he insists.
“Cozy for one,” I shoot back, and he laughs, conceding my point. Then I zoom in on the bathroom—a showerhead, toilet, and sink crammed into a closet. “That right there,” I emphasize, “is my personal hell. Disgusting!” we both agree, joking about crapping and showering at the same time.
The call ends, as usual, with his nightly prayers for my peace and strength. I praise him, honestly, telling him that the comforting words help, that his hopefulness makes a difference. He thanks me, then suggests a new ritual: three deep breaths before bed, together. I close my eyes and follow his lead through the screen. The air expands my ribs, making space inside my chest. I don’t realize how much I’ve needed this slow, deliberate pause.
“It was nice seeing you again tonight,” Jeff says, his voice soft and almost shy. “Sleep tight.”
A warmth stirs in my stomach. “It was good seeing you too,” I reply. “Goodnight and sleep well.”
We’d only spent an hour together, but already I feel a shift. He helped me get the supplies for my projects, something I’d grown used to doing alone. I could almost feel myself leaning into him, just a little, the way you do when you want to trust a new chair. Having Jeff with me, even in a mundane setting, was a relief. The lessening of a heavy load, as I remember the verse from Matthew 11.
“For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”
And yes, I feel lighter. The endless list of things to fix, the heaviness of loss and transition, seems for a moment not as crushing. Maybe I can let someone else carry a piece, even if only for a mile or two. Maybe I can lower my guard, just enough to let someone see the fragile, unfinished parts of me.
And maybe, just maybe, it won’t end in disaster.
This post is part of a fictionalized memoir. The emotional experiences and themes are drawn from my life, but all names, identities, timelines, and circumstances have been altered, obscured, or combined to protect privacy — including my own. These writings are not meant to diagnose, label, or describe any real person. Instead, they illuminate relational patterns that can occur in emotionally imbalanced or narcissistic dynamics. Any resemblance to actual individuals is coincidental or intentionally obscured. The intention is healing and awareness, not identification. These posts are for storytelling purposes only and do not constitute professional advice.
The images woven through My Journey and The Lessons are my own photographs — moments I captured on trails, in forests, beside rivers, and under open sky. They are pieces of my story and are not to be copied or used without permission.
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