The coffee shop was busy, but I sat alone. Just me, my lukewarm coffee, and the weight of another Veterans Day without him.
People always say it gets easier. That grief softens over time. Maybe that’s true for some. But for me, it still felt like a fresh wound, even after five years.
James had been my husband, my best friend. A soldier. He gave everything for this country, but on days like this, it felt like nobody remembered. The parades, the social media posts—they weren’t for him. They were for people who could still be thanked. People who came home.
I stared out the window, barely noticing when someone sat down across from me.
“Excuse me,” a man said gently. “What was his name?”
I blinked, turning to him. He was older, maybe mid-fifties, wearing a jacket with a military insignia on the sleeve. I glanced down—his hand rested lightly on the table, his fingers curled like he already knew loss too.
“James,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
The man nodded. “Tell me about him.”
And just like that, the lump in my throat swelled. Because no one ever asked. They offered sympathy, yes. But they never asked who James was, what he loved, what made him laugh.
I swallowed hard, then exhaled.
“He had the worst singing voice you’ve ever heard,” I started, a small smile breaking through.
And for the first time that day, I didn’t feel alone.
The man chuckled, leaning forward slightly. “Go on.”
I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup. “He sang in the car, in the shower, anywhere he could, really. And he was terrible. But he didn’t care. He always said music wasn’t about sounding good—it was about feeling good. And that was James. He lived with his whole heart.”
The man nodded, his expression warm. “Sounds like someone worth knowing.”
“He was.” I exhaled, my fingers tracing the rim of my cup. “He was also the kind of guy who stopped for every stray animal he saw. Drove me crazy sometimes. We had three dogs by the time he deployed, all because he ‘couldn’t just leave them there.’” I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head at the memory. “He had the biggest heart.”
The man smiled, but there was something else in his eyes. Understanding. A kind of sorrow that mirrored my own.
“I lost my brother,” he said, after a moment. “Afghanistan. Six years ago.”
I met his gaze, feeling the familiar pang of shared grief. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” He sighed, staring at his hands. “I think about him every day. But on days like this…” He gestured vaguely, his voice trailing off.
I nodded. “It hits harder.”
He was quiet for a moment before looking at me again. “Do you ever feel like the world just moves on without them?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yeah.”
“Me too.” He took a sip of his coffee, then set it down. “That’s why I started doing this.”
I frowned slightly. “Doing what?”
“Sitting with people like us. People who lost someone who should still be here.” He glanced around the coffee shop. “Every year, I come here, find someone alone, and ask about their person. Because they deserve to be remembered.”
A lump formed in my throat again, but this time, it wasn’t just grief. It was gratitude.
“That’s…” I shook my head, exhaling. “That’s really incredible.”
He gave a small shrug. “It’s the least I can do.”
For the first time in years, I felt something shift. Maybe grief didn’t go away, but maybe it didn’t have to be carried alone.
We sat there for over an hour, swapping stories about James and his brother, Mark. The kind of men they were. The things they left behind. The love they gave so freely.
And then, as I was getting ready to leave, the man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. “Can I give you something?”
I hesitated, then nodded.
He handed it to me. “A letter my brother wrote before he deployed. He always said if anything happened, someone else might need his words more than me one day.”
I unfolded the paper carefully. The handwriting was neat, deliberate.
If you’re reading this, I guess I didn’t make it back. But I need you to know something. Love doesn’t end here. I promise, as long as you keep telling my stories, I’ll never be gone. Keep talking about me. Keep laughing at my bad jokes. Keep living. That’s how you keep me alive.
Tears blurred my vision. I pressed the letter to my chest, overwhelmed.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice thick.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Thank you for remembering James.”
As I walked out of the coffee shop that day, I realized something. Grief might never go away. But neither does love.
So today, if you’ve lost someone, tell their story. Say their name. Because they still matter.
If this story touched you, share it. Keep the memories alive. Because love never truly fades.