My name’s Loren. I’m 35, widowed young, and a mom of two amazing kids—Simon and Nancy. I met Brian 13 months after my husband died, at my sister’s barbecue. I wasn’t looking for love, just a moment of adult conversation. But Brian showed up with a smile, real lemonade, and kindness that cracked through my grief.
He made balloon animals with my kids, remembered birthdays, brought Chinese takeout when I worked late, and taught Simon to ride a bike. The kids called him “our Brian,” and when he proposed, Nancy whispered, “I hope he stays forever.” I said, “Me too.”
But forever only lasted eight months.
He grew distant—silent dinners, long nights out, and a growing coldness I couldn’t ignore. Then I saw him at Romano’s with another woman, holding hands like teenagers. When I confronted him, he didn’t deny it. He shrugged and said, “Now you know.” Then he demanded every gift back—even from my kids.
So I packed everything into a box—perfume, bracelet, Xbox, Nancy’s stuffed elephant—and left it on his porch. Overnight in the garage, bugs had found their way inside, drawn by the chocolate and perfume. Watching Brian scream at ants and spiders, dancing around in his bathrobe, was the closure I didn’t know I needed.
Later, I retrieved the box from the dumpster. The kids got their gifts back, and we spent the night laughing under blankets on the living room floor.
I don’t regret loving Brian. But I regret letting my kids love someone who didn’t deserve them. Next time, I’ll choose better. And if someone tries to hurt us again, karma and I will be ready—just like before.