The first time I stepped into that café for an expat book club, I nearly turned around and walked straight back out.
A year ago, I would have. No question.
Bryan used to tease me about this. Said I had a habit of pulling away when things got overwhelming. Said I’d rather sit in the garden and talk to my plants than make new friends. He wasn’t wrong.
But something is shifting.
I breathe in, steady myself, and step forward.
The café is warm. Coffee and cinnamon cling to the air, the soft hum of voices filling the space. I pause near the door, scanning the room like I might somehow spot a familiar face. But of course, there isn’t one.
Then, I see them.
A small group by the window, books stacked haphazardly on the table, conversation flowing easily between them. Someone laughs—loud and unfiltered. They glance up, spot me hovering, and before I can make an excuse, a woman waves me over.
I exhale. Keep walking.
The welcome is effortless. Like I belong. A Frenchwoman with a quick wit. A retired English teacher with a knowing smile. A couple from Argentina who finish each other’s sentences.
We talk about books.
And gardening.
And the oddities of Spanish bureaucracy.
The conversation drifts to missing home, to the strange in-between life of expats—the way you’re never quite here or there. I nod along, feeling the warmth of shared experience settle in.
For the first time in a long time, I feel… lighter.
Afterward, I walk home through the narrow streets, hands tucked into my pockets, the night air crisp but not cold. There’s a feeling I can’t quite name, something just out of reach.
Relief?
No. Something softer.
Hope.
Grief has been my shadow for so long. A weight pressing against my ribs, something I’d learned to carry without thinking. But tonight, for the first time, I feel it shift. Just slightly.
Back home, I check on the garden.
The foxgloves are standing tall.
The shamrocks, stubborn as ever, have begun to spread. Bryan would have loved that. Would have laughed at my attempt to force a bit of Ireland into Spanish soil.
I pour a glass of wine and step onto the balcony.
The city stretches out below, lights flickering against the dark. And for the first time in a long time, I sit back, exhale, and let myself feel it.
The quiet joy.
The small but certain truth.
I am still growing.