The Red Umbrella

Over more than two decades together, Terry and I rarely disagreed. Truly. We were not dramatic people. We were steady. If love were weather, ours was a long, generous autumn. Crisp air. Golden light. Very little thunder.

There was one time, though.

He did something so entirely unlike him that it caught me off guard. Not cruel. Not careless. Just misguided in that earnest way of his. When I confronted him, ready with my tidy case and supporting evidence, he listened quietly. Then he said, “Honey, I knew I did something stupid. I just overdid feeling sorry for someone.”

That was it.

No grand apology. No theatrical remorse. Just that simple confession, honest as a sunrise. And somehow, that was more than any apology could have been. He saw it. He owned it. We moved on.

That was our way.

One afternoon, I showed him a picture of an elderly couple sitting back to back on a park bench. A red umbrella held carefully overhead. The caption read, “Just because you’re mad at someone doesn’t mean you stop loving them.”

He studied it for a moment, thoughtful as ever. Then he asked, “Now, in this picture, am I mad at you or are you mad at me?”

I laughed. I could not help it.

“Well,” I said, “we almost never get mad at each other. We get even.”

He blinked.

Then we both burst into laughter that startled the imaginary pigeons in that imaginary park.

That was us. Not angry. Just mildly competitive in righteousness.

Looking back, I feel lucky. Not because we were perfect. We were not. But because we were friends first. Good ones. The kind who hold the umbrella even when they are sitting in opposite directions. The kind who assume goodwill. The kind who can admit when they have “overdone” something.

Terry used to say he never thought he could have such an unbreakable bond in this lifetime. That always stayed with me. Perhaps that is why he guarded ours so carefully. Like a small garden that needed tending. A little water. A little sun. Occasional weeding.

Nothing dramatic.

Just daily care.

I treasure that. The laughter. The steadiness. The quiet loyalty that did not need constant proof.

And yes, I miss him tremendously.

But when I think of us, I do not think of loss. I think of that red umbrella. Of sitting back to back, knowing full well that even if we disagreed, we were still on the same bench.