A week ago, I bumped into my first love again at his wifes funeral, of all places and ever since, I feel as if my entire lifes been thrown into disarray. Im forty now, divorced for two years, and raising two children on my own. I genuinely believed Id been through all lifes ups and downs in the love department, that there were no old wounds left open. But simply seeing him once more made me realise that some chapters in our lives are never quite finished.
I was just seventeen when we were together. He was my first true love. The kind of love that weighs heavily in your chest, that makes you scribble endless letters and dream about building a future hand-in-hand. My parents never truly accepted him. Theyd go on about how hed left school, worked as a mechanic, had little to his name how you deserve more than this, Abigail. Their pressure slowly wore me down, until I ended the relationship. Not because my feelings changed they never did but because I was made to feel I had no choice. Not long after, they packed me off to study in Birmingham, and that was the start of a completely new life for me.
The years rolled by. I finished university, got married, had my children, created a family of my own. From the outside, it all looked rather standard and neatly ordered, but my marriage never quite worked out; we broke up, and I found myself back in my old village with the kids. I started catching up with old school friends and neighbours but never with him. I never asked about him. Im not sure if it was out of fear, respect, or because I just knew stirring up those memories could end in pain.
Then, just last week, a mate sent me a message: Have you heard about Tom? I didnt understand at first, and then he said Toms wife had passed away, and that his workmates were sorting out flowers and a bit of a collection for the funeral. He asked if I wanted to chip in or if Id attend. I just stared at my phone for a while, thinking.
I did end up going to the funeral. I cant explain why I just felt I should. Seeing Tom standing there beside the coffin, face drawn and eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, I felt a sharp ache strike through me. He wasnt the seventeen-year-old boy I remembered, but he was still unmistakably the same person inside. Our eyes met from across the room. We didnt hug or speak at all simply exchanged a look. It was all it took to unsettle everything inside me.
Since then, I havent stopped thinking about him. About all we were, and all we werent allowed to become. About how my life might have unfolded if Id been a bit braver and stood up to others. I’m wracked with guilt for feeling this way, especially as hes deep in mourning. I have no intention of intruding, of making things awkward, and I certainly dont want to rekindle anything its not about that. We arent even connected on social media. It all lives just in my heart and mind.
So here I am forty years old, two children, life more or less sorted and I feel as if Im seventeen again, falling for him for the very first time. Im left wondering if this is just nostalgia, or a kind of mourning for the life I never lived, or perhaps a sign that a first love never truly fades as much as youd expect.
Looking back, I suppose the biggest lesson is that you can move forward in life, build new beginnings, and still find certain emotions linger beneath the surface. Sometimes, what seems buried isnt gone and maybe thats okay.
