I live with my ex-husband, Darion. Two years divorced, but because of finances, we still share the house like awkward roommates. One evening, I pulled into the driveway and nearly stumbled. Our porch light — once plain white — now glowed neon green. Inside, I demanded, “Why is the porch light green?” Darion simply said, “It’s for my father,” and walked away.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. A friend later told me a green light often means support for veterans. Darion’s dad had served, but why now? A few nights later, I found him sitting on the porch, staring at the light. I finally asked. His voice cracked as he confessed: his father hadn’t died of natural causes but had taken his own life. His mother had only just told him. “The green light,” he whispered, “is for him—and for every veteran still struggling. I just needed something.”

That moment changed us. We began talking more, cooking together, reading through his father’s old letters. Slowly, the distance between us shrank. Of course, old hurts resurfaced—we fought, even shouted—but this time, we kept coming back to the table. Counseling helped us stop keeping score and start listening.

Then, life surprised us again: I found out I was pregnant. Terrified but hopeful, we decided to try—really try. We painted the nursery the same shade of green as the porch light, a symbol of growth and healing. The night we brought our daughter home, that light glowed softly outside, no longer eerie but warm—a beacon of everything we’d fought for.

Now, when neighbors ask about the light, we tell them the truth. It’s not just for Darion’s father—it’s for every silent battle, every chance at a second beginning. Sometimes, love doesn’t end; it waits for us to grow strong enough to carry it again.