I feel sorry for the girl who broke your heart.
It was a long time ago, several years before I ever heard your name. I don’t know her and I don’t know the full story, but I know this much: you were crazy about her, and for some reason, she walked away.
It hurts me to think of you hurting, even though I never knew that younger version of you. But truthfully? As sorry as I am you had to experience that kind of pain, I’m even more sorry for her, the girl who broke your heart.
Because man, oh man, did she miss out on a good one.
She missed out on the kind of guy who winks as he passes his wife in the kitchen, because even though she feels like a hot mess in a top knot and sweats, he’s still crazy about her.
She missed out on the kind of guy who wrestles wild boys into PJs and whispers sweet nothings into a baby girl’s ear. Whose eyes fill with tears as he talks about his kids because he’s so overcome with fatherly pride.
She missed out on the kind of guy who slips 10 bucks into his wife’s pocket and tells her to stop for a latte because he knows she would otherwise hesitate about spending the money on herself.
She missed out on the kind of guy who is patient with his moody wife and who partners with her faithfully through every storm.
She missed out on someone who is loyal and humble.
Selfless and kind.
Hardworking and funny.
The perfect blend of sweet and ornery.
Plain and simple, she missed out on the greatest man I’ve ever known.
If that girl had only seen you the way I do, she never would have let you go . . . but I’ll forever be grateful she did.
If she hadn’t broken your heart, I wouldn’t have had the chance to put it back together.
You may not have smiled my way. I may never have said that first “hello”. We may not have swapped phone numbers in a crowded room.
We wouldn’t have fallen in love, or exchanged rings, or had three beautiful, beautiful babies. Our windy, broken roads would never have intersected to lead us to this life we’ve built together.
Everything happens for a reason, they say—and I guess we were each other’s reason.
Sometimes I wish I could send a message back in time to the broken-hearted boy I’ve seen in your old photos. I’d squeeze your hand and whisper in your ear, just hold on . . . we’ll find each other soon.
Years have passed, and I know you don’t think of her anymore—but I sure do.
When I slip my hand into yours or you wrap me up in those big, strong arms of yours, I can’t help but feel so, so grateful to that girl for breaking your heart.
Because now, it belongs to me.
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