Three AM. Unable to sleep.

I turn over to touch him. But his side is cold. The sheets are neat and undisturbed. It’s not the first time for this.

My nightly dreams of little feet pattering down the hall, cherub cheeks giggling with joy have all but faded away now.  I’ve ached for so long to have our home blessed with a little one running around. All I have left now are tears soaking this pillow where I lay my head  

With the infinity of promised tomorrows lost, I step from bed, slip my ring free, and set it beside the lamp’s weak glow on the nightstand. 

I walk out into the warm night barefoot and heartbroken. Into a reckless abundance of glass skyscrapers, resigned traffic lights, billboards, and marquees flickering in gaudy technicolor. A wind rises, shadows shift while I wander aimlessly down rain-slicked streets, shimmering beneath lamp posts along a tree-lined parkway. The electric rhythm of this city never sleeps. It’s been my home since we vowed the vows and walked the walk. This place is an obscenity. He chose it with promises of love forever. 

The breeze stiffens. There’s something different tonight. Shadows transcend the usual bawling luminescence of city lights. They whisper and crawl in eerie bearings. I swallow and move on, buried in thought.

Ahead are unfamiliar shapes—strange lights pulsing in time with my heartbeat. A small flat-roof house comes into focus.

Something draws me closer, like a moth to flame. Countless times I’ve walked here. But never noticed it until now.

Closer now. Plaques and inspirational quotes tacked to clapboard walls. A wooden white cross leans awkwardly in a patch of scrawny grass—the kind that pushes through sidewalk cracks and survives on forgotten lots.

It Can’t be. I squint. At’s a…. I rub my eyes. It’s a little neighborhood church.

Are you crazy? Are you seeing things? This shouldn’t be here, imprisoned in this urban blister. No, this belongs on a quiet street in a small town, where church bells mark the hours. Not here. No, no, not here.

Gospel music drifts from an open door, sweet, deep, and soulful. I’m drawn to hear more of a message in the melody and love in the lyrics. Pure devotion.

Standing at the door steps worn smooth by years of faithful feet coming and going, I pause, mesmerized. A tiny black woman, gray-headed with eyes as deep as night in a peaceful smile, approaches. Without words, she takes my hand.

“Welcome, child.”

Without fear or restraint, I let her lead me in.

Brown faces, shining eyes smile at my entry. A cheese and fruit tray sits next to a coffin, untouched.

The small woman with the warm hands… “I’m Sybil, his wife. How did you know Caruthers?”

I stutter apologetically. “I don’t.” I swallow. “So sorry for your loss.”

She nods, gently. “Forty-two years in harmony we lived together. But he was not a perfect man. Came by his flaws honestly, though.” Her voice is calm, tender, at peace like the last light of day. “He inherited his father’s disease—a wandering heart. He died in another woman’s arms.”

“But yet you love him still, even as he is in his passing?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. He was a good man. Provided for us well. Loved our children. Loved me, in his own way.” She smiles, age lines softening. “Acceptance. That’s why. Love doesn’t wait for perfection, honey. It chooses what remains after truth. He left me honest. He left me with gratitude for the years we had together.”

With her hands rubbing mine gently, warm as a child’s cheek at bedtime she whispers, “You see, neither was I perfect.”

There’s a lump in my throat as I squeek out, “Beautiful. Beautiful. Such a loyal relationship for so long.”

“Caruthers was an outstanding father and a loving husband. Lucky to have him.” Without looking up, she kneads my fingers thoughtfully. “Don’t get me wrong, he was not a perfect man. He lived within the shadows of his father’s disease. So it came to him honestly.”

I frown with so many questions racing through my head. but… Do not ask.

She continues. “Caruthers was a flirt. Apologetically promiscuous. It was his father’s genes at work. He died in the arms of another woman. His cross to bear.”

I give her fragile hand a little press. “How did you do it? Stay together for so long, knowing his ways? And still now, in his passing, you continue to love him in memory?”

With a wrinkled smile, she leans into me. “He never denied his iniquities. He loved me. I loved him despite his imperfections. Acceptance was the bond that kept us together. Acceptance. He left me as an honest man.” She squeezes my hand. “Neither was I perfect.”

“But that never bothered you? His philandering?”

“Of course it did. But I knew how he was when I married him. I knew his father. Caruthers couldn’t help what he inherited. There was so much worth in him—good provider, no drugs, didn’t drink. Worked two jobs to put food on the table and toys under the tree. Such a good man to me and the kids, despite that indomitable behavior. I knew he wasn’t perfect. But the good in him outweighed the other. I could have searched the world for that perfect man and never found one as good as him in so many ways.”

Inching closer, she looks up into my eyes, searching with tenderness. “Have you found that perfect person, honey?”

I shrink back, wanting to shout out that I deserved a better man that I have. But discipline get’s the better of me. So, I squeak out an answer… “No.”

Her fingers touch my face. “Was there doubt when you accepted his hand at the alter? Were you also accepted for who you are?”

Standing outside under a street lamp, a lump sits in my throat, and a warm breeze gently runs through my hair. I hug myself. The tears gone now. I’m not sure if they washed Sybil away, or if she was ever really there.

I glance back down the street to where the ring still sits alone next to the bed on the nightstand. Where he will find it and wonder. Then I look forward, into the lights of the casinos beckoning with promises of exciting times for a better future.

I wonder.

The lonely ring still sits under the soft light wondering the same.