The Way He Loved Me Through My Storms

Today, I’m sitting here, just thinking about how, when my husband was still here, I was so much more immature than I realized.

Little things would upset me, things I can’t even fully remember now. Sadness, frustration, emotions bigger than I could hold.
And when those feelings came, I had a ritual: I would run a long, long bath.

Not just a quick soak.
Three, sometimes four hours.
Candles everywhere.
Soft music humming low.
The bathroom would turn into a little sanctuary where I could be alone with whatever I was feeling, spiritual, emotional, romantic just for myself.

And while I disappeared into my waterworld, he would be in the living room.
Steady. Quiet. Close.

Watching TV.
Scrolling on his tablet.
Reading the news or looking at model train pictures and videos on Pinterest—one of his favorite quiet hobbies.

He never rushed me. Never interrupted. Never made me feel like I was being too much.

When I would finally emerge, wrapped in fresh towels and softer than when I went in, sometimes the sadness would still cling.
I’d act spoiled, pretending I didn’t need anything, pretending to be strong and distant, when really, all I wanted was him.

And every single time, he received me with patience.
He’d smile, open his arms without hesitation, and ask:

"Are you done, Banana? How was your bath? Did you have a good time? Did you relax? How’s your back feeling? Oh, that’s good. I’m happy your back is feeling better."

Every time, he met me right where I was—without asking me to be lighter, happier, different.

I think about the birthday massage he had planned for me.
How even before I asked for care, he was already arranging it.
How he loved me through every storm, even the ones I created inside myself.

Today, I miss that steady love.
I miss being received without judgment.
I miss being loved in all my messy, emotional ways, and being loved even more because of them.

And today, this is one of the things I remember about us.