My name is Bridget, and at 34 years old, I never expected to be a widow. Three months ago, I lost Adam, my husband of 11 years, to a sudden aneurysm. Just days after his funeral, I dragged myself to my nephew Lucas’s first birthday party, where my sister Cassandra dropped a bomb. She announced that Lucas was actually Adam’s son, showing everyone a will claiming half of my $800,000 house. What she did not know was why I could barely hold back my laughter.
Adam and I met 12 years ago at a charity auction benefiting children with cancer. I was volunteering, helping organize the silent auction items, when he outbid everyone else for a painting I’d been admiring all night. It was a watercolor of the Boston skyline at sunset—vibrant oranges and purples bleeding into the harbor.
After winning, he walked straight over to me and handed it over. «I noticed you looking at this all night,» he said, with a smile that made his blue eyes crinkle at the corners. «I think it belongs with you.»
That was Adam: thoughtful, observant, and generous to a fault. I fell hard and fast. We went on our first date the next evening, and it felt like we had known each other our entire lives.
