There are moments in life when you truly witness what love is.
When you watch your bride-to-be walk down the aisle, radiant and full of hope.
When you hear your baby take their first breath, tiny and miraculous.
When you lock eyes with your soulmate, and in that glance, the world falls away.
Yes, those are moments of true love.
I thought I understood love. I had felt butterflies, the kind that made your stomach flip uncontrollably. I had known that breathtaking rush when someone captures your heart completely. I had spent nights lying next to someone, counting their heartbeats, silently praying they would never stop. I thought that was love.
But I had never truly known real, pure, unguarded love—until April 5, 2015. It was Easter Sunday. My daughter was twelve. She wore Easter Bunny ears to the airport, her excitement bubbling over, though she hardly spoke. She didn’t need to. I could see everything in her face. Her eyes were wide, almost too big for her face. I could see the rapid beat of her heart in her neck. She fidgeted impatiently, her leg bouncing, her hands twisting nervously in her lap.
And then, she saw him.
Her father.
Her body stayed in the seat, yet her soul seemed to leap from her chest. She froze, unsure what to do or say, and I could see it—the overwhelming love, the longing, the relief.
He had changed. Forty pounds lighter. Pale. Limping from the pain of his abdominal incision. His face was drawn, quiet, reserved. But she noticed. The little gymnast who had spent a lifetime bouncing off the walls moved slowly toward him, though I knew she longed to run and throw herself into his arms.
It had been two months since she had seen him. Every day, she asked for him. She wanted him home. She wanted to bake cupcakes together, grill steak at midnight, share mint-chip ice cream, and lip-sync to the newest Hannah Montana song.
But more than anything, she wanted him to be well. She wanted him alive. She wanted him healed. She wanted the sickness and fear to be gone.
They were both unsure, scared even. And as she reached him, she cautiously hugged his leg. He bent down and wrapped his arm around her. With a voice barely above a whisper, she pushed out two words:
“Hi, Daddy.”
I can’t remember if he spoke. I think he just held her tighter, afraid his voice would break, afraid the tears would come. In moments like that, words fail. You just hold on. And that’s what they did. She held his hand, and he held hers, while his other hand rested protectively over the wound that ran from his sternum to his pelvis—a reminder of the surgery that had tried to take him from her. A tumor deep in his pancreas, a beast that had fought to steal him away.
By the time we returned home, he was exhausted. He picked at the Easter dinner we had prepared, hoping to eat, trying his best, but his appetite was gone. Potato salad pushed aside, a bite of egg, and then nothing more. He eased into the recliner in the only position that brought comfort, and my daughter silently joined him.
She didn’t speak. Words weren’t needed. Yet, as they nestled closer, a language of hearts took over. They shared whispers and glances that only they could understand, a conversation of love and relief that no one else could hear.
It was then I understood what true love really is. Not grand gestures, not sweeping declarations, but small, quiet moments shared between two hearts that have endured fear, pain, and longing.
The next time I witnessed that same kind of love was the day he died. My daughter had stayed with him all day, bringing him iced tea, wiping his brow, offering comfort. Late in the evening, I sent her home. We believed he was improving, that hope was still possible. But within minutes of her leaving, he could not breathe.
I called the doctor.
“He will not make it through the night,” they said.
My mind screamed “Impossible!”—he was fine just moments before with her by his side.
And then I understood. He had waited for her.
It was his final act of love.
I called her back and let her choose. She returned immediately. She held his hand as he took his last breath, much like he had held hers when she had first greeted him.
That is what true love is. Every moment—the silly ones, the joyful ones, the quiet ones, the excruciating ones. When love is pure, it is all-encompassing. You laugh together. You cry together. You fight together. You sacrifice together. You simply hold on together. And sometimes, you have to say goodbye.
But you never forget. I never will. She never will. None of us will.
I want to remember what true love feels like, looks like, sounds like, and even what it doesn’t. I want to carry it with me, again and again. I want her to, too. We should never settle for less than the best, the most beautiful, the most real love.
Because we all deserve it. And we all deserve to know, again and again, what true love really is.
