I was forty when I finally fell in love with a man who was a widower.
He'd been married exactly one week when his wife died. Car accident- she'd gone out for butterscotch topping for the sundaes they were going to have after they finished wallpapering their bathroom.
He didn't date for five years after her death, and he didn't think about marrying again until fifteen years after that, when he met me.
She was a lovely black-haired woman who taught nursery school and wrote exquisite poetry.
I know Pete is devoted to me, but I also know that a corner of his soul is reserved for her. I don't mind.
She deserves it. And so does he.
~ Elizabeth Berg, The Art of Mending