At 77, I found myself resigned to my reality. After enduring two failed marriages and a series of fruitless dating ventures, I conceded to what felt destined: an existence of solitude that had stretched close to four decades. I told myself to appreciate the blessings in my life—cherished family, close friends, and fulfilling work. Life had a rhythm, a semblance of order. That is, until Ty entered the picture.
Ty was the husband of my best friend, a man I had always known but never really noticed. Then, a decade ago, tragedy struck—my dear friend was diagnosed with lung cancer. During those heart-wrenching visits, I witnessed Ty in a new light, his nurturing spirit on full display as he cared for her, even though they had parted ways years earlier at her request.
After her passing, Ty and I kept in touch sporadically—small gestures, like sharing news about his new granddaughter and attending my book launch. He was there in the background, always kind yet maintaining a distance. The memory of his warmth lingered with me, and I couldn’t shake off thoughts of his handsome face and tall frame. Conflicted about my feelings, I reached out to him disguised as a potential client, asking for advice on purchasing a tree for my garden.
Our day together at the nursery was filled with laughter and easy conversations about our choices. When I emailed him a photo of the tree once it was planted, he replied with a grateful note. Time passed again, and I learned about his growing family while I reminisced about our time together. Compelled by a mixture of curiosity and longing, I contacted him under the pretense of discussing a garage remodel.
He came to my house, measuring and sketching, sharing snippets of his life through photographs of his home. I was filled with gratitude for his help, but unsure of what kind of connection we were nurturing. I wanted so much more than friendship, yet I hesitated to reveal my true feelings. Breaking my silence, I sent him a gift card to a restaurant, reasoning it could be a chance for us to spend time together.
His response was straightforward: “Maybe we should spend it together.” That date turned into a magical evening as the sun set, our conversation flowing yet overshadowed by the tension of unspoken thoughts. I yearned for clarity, letting my hand hover near the candle between us, but to my dismay, it remained untouched.
Weeks later, at his suggestion, we hiked in Tuna Canyon. The ocean sparkled below us, and the moment felt charged with possibility. As I navigated the slippery path, Ty took my hand to steady me, marking an intimate connection. At the end of the trail, we stood facing each other for what felt like an hour, reluctant to part. But despite the allure of a shared meal or evening together, we each returned home alone.
We repeated our hiking adventures, and eventually, Ty invited me back to his home. As we sat close on the couch, the atmosphere changed. Light brushed against us as we talked, and slowly, our edges blurred. In that quiet space, he took a leap of faith.
“I wanted you,” he admitted, his voice filled with vulnerability. “I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”
What followed was an explosion of pent-up emotions, and I leaned into the connection he offered. Now, three years later, that space we carved out together remains—a sanctuary where we’ve refused to surrender to the passage of time. Ty holds me close, reminding me that it’s never too late to find love, even after all those years of waiting.
The author is a preschool owner and a psychotherapist living in Mar Vista. Her works include “Naked in the Woods: My Unexpected Years in a Hippie Commune” and a manuscript titled “Bargains: A Coming of Aging Memoir Told in Tales,” currently seeking a publisher.