“Left or right?” you’d ask, and I’d choose without knowing where we’d end up.
Sometimes it was another town. Sometimes another state. Five little voices filled the backseat while the road stretched endlessly ahead, the music played, and the world felt like it belonged to us.
We never needed a destination. We had each other, our babies, and the kind of love that could turn a wrong turn into our favorite memory.
When hunger found us, we’d pull over and count out six meals for seven people. Lily was still so little, too small for her own. I used to think nothing of it. I never imagined I’d miss those little details one day, or that life would move forward before we were ready for seven.
Now the roads are still out there, Steven. The places we never visited are still waiting. But I can’t take another spontaneous drive and look over at you beside me. And sometimes that hurts more than words can hold.
I wonder if heaven has open roads, if the sky goes on forever, and if somewhere beyond this life, you’re waiting for me with that familiar smile.
I hope you’ll ask me again.
“Left or right?”
And I’ll laugh through my tears and say, “You choose, baby. I’ve followed you this far.”
Because I thought we were just taking the long way home.
I didn’t know those miles were becoming the stories I’d carry for the rest of my life.
I didn’t know ordinary afternoons would become sacred memories.
I didn’t know I was living some of the days I’d spend forever wishing I could have back.
If I could return to any place in this world, I wouldn’t choose a destination. I’d choose that car, those children, the music, the open road, and you.
And wherever you turned, I’d go.
P.S. I love you.
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