Dan had his own struggles. He married young, divorced after three years, and was trying his best to co-parent a little girl who deserved better than the chaos her parents had created.
He never spoke badly about his ex. Never played the victim. I’d always respected him for that.
When Peter died, Dan simply showed up. He didn’t ask what I needed or wait to be invited. He fixed the garbage disposal Peter had kept putting off. He brought groceries when I forgot to eat. He sat with my son in the garage and let him work through his anger with a hammer and scrap wood.
Not once did Dan make it about himself.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” I told him one evening, maybe four months after the funeral. He was replacing a lightbulb in the hallway, something I could’ve done myself but hadn’t bothered with.
“I know,” he said, not looking at me. “But Pete would’ve done it for me.”
And that was it. No ulterior motives. No hidden agenda. Just a man keeping a promise to his best friend.
The feelings crept up on me so slowly I didn’t recognize them at first.