Page 2 of If Love Had A Manual

I didn’t realize I had staggered until the taller cop reached out a hand to steady me. My sister. My brother-in-law. Gone. Just like that. It made no sense. Amber was the bright, fierce heartbeat of our family. And Mike was so steady, so proud to be her husband, so damn good at loving her.

And Rosie…

Christ.

My eyes flicked automatically to the stairs, to where Rosie slept, perfectly peaceful, oblivious to the fact that her entire world had just fractured. She was theirs. Their baby. Their miracle.

I couldn’t wrap my mind around the quiet heartbreak settling in my chest.

I remember the officers said something about waiting for the official coroner’s report, about next of kin, about how sorry they were. All I could do was stand there, nodding like a man in a trance, while Lyndsey quietly wept behind me. Numbness sank into my bones, the kind that makes you feel hollow from the inside out.

At some point, I shut the door. I turned to Lyndsey, saw her tear-streaked cheeks, and heard a tiny cry from upstairs. Rosie stirred as if she somehow sensed the catastrophe rippling through the house. When I stumbled to the travel cot and scooped her up, I realized that everything had changed in a single moment. Amber was gone. Mike was gone. Rosie had no parents now.

And I was lost.

∞∞∞

The memory slams into me and leaves mebreathless as I’m yanked back into my empty kitchen. My hands grip the counter to keep from shaking, eyes stinging with unshed tears. The unopened beer stares me down, shining in the overhead light while Rosie’s baby monitor hums softly like a half-forgotten lullaby.

I feel the crushing weight of all that’s happened, of losing Amber and Mike, trying to raise Rosie, watching Lyndsey walk away when she realized I was too broken to let her in. And now I’m forced with another choice: hire the nanny or soldier on alone, like I have been since the day the cops knocked on my door.

I hate how it all turned out. How my heart feels splintered into too many pieces to count. But what I want doesn’t matter anymore. This is about Rosie and her needs, her future, her happiness. She’s lost enough in her short life, and I’ll be damned if I let her lose anything else.

Setting the beer aside, I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, willing the memories to stop clawing at me. My throat feels tight, and my lungs burn like I’ve been holding my breath for months. In some ways, I probably have.

I might not know exactly who I am now. I might not know if I’ll ever be the same guy I was before. But I do know one thing: Rosie deserves more than this empty shell of a man I’ve become. She deserves stability, laughter, and a home filled with love instead of quiet devastation.

I might not have all the answers, but I have one, and I’ll do anything to keep her safe, to give her the life Amber and Mike would’ve wanted for her. Even if it means letting someone else in, letting a nanny help where I can’t handle it alone. Even if it means facing the gaping hole in my chest every single day.

I couldn’t save Amber or Mike. I couldn’t stop that knock at the door. But I can show up for Rosie, day in and day out, giving her a shot at a happy childhood. One not defined solely by loss.

So I inhale, brace myself, and step away from the counter. The decision feels monumental, yet it also feels like there was never another option. Tomorrow, I’ll make the call. I’ll invite a stranger into our lives to help with the one precious thing I have left.

I can’t go back to before, but maybe I can find a way forward. For Rosie’s sake, and maybe, one day, for mine too.

Two

Lena

I’m starting to think love might be an elaborate hoax cooked up by greeting card companies.

The voice of the host fromSkeptically In Lovepours through my car’s speakers. Well, the Bluetooth speaker. My dear Ruby—my car—barely has a functioning radio, so I’ve got a portable speaker jammed in the cup holder. It works. Mostly.

The parking lot of the assisted living facility is nearly empty as I pull in, but I barely notice. I’m too busy listening.

“Love is chaos,”the host declares.“And not the charming, scripted chaos you see in movies. Real love? It’s messy. It comes without warnings or instructions. It doesn't care if you’re ready or not. Whoever convinced us there’s some manual for navigating relationships was probably selling greeting cards…or something stronger.”

I blink and stare at the empty passenger seat like I’ve just been personally called out.

Pointing at the speaker, I gasp, “That’s what I said.”

Focusing on the voice, my fingers tap a random rhythm on the steering wheel.

“But that’s the beauty of it, right? If love were easy, if it followed a neat, predictable timeline, wouldn’t that be boring? Wouldn’t that mean it wasn’t worth the risk?”

“Easy doesn’t sound boring to me at all,” I tell my speaker, ignoring a curious glance from a woman getting in her car that’s parked next to mine.

“To our dear letter writer, whoever you are: contracts scribbled on napkins, neat timelines, perfectly executed plans, they don’t matter. Love doesn’t have a manual. And even if it did, you’d probably lose it anyway. So throw caution to the wind, let go of the rulebook, and go get your girl.”

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