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“This is Lily.” Brielle kneels to greet her niece. “And the little one is Oliver. He’s almost nine months old now.”
“Your family’s beautiful,” I tell Paisley sincerely.
“They’re my world,” she says.
Brielle’s brother-in-law appears from the kitchen—a friendly-faced man who introduces himself as Eric and offers me a beer with considerably more warmth than his wife has shown. The production team sets up discreetly in corners, capturing our initial interactions with practiced invisibility.
Dinner is a strained affair. Paisley asks pointed questions about my photography career, my time on the show, my intentions toward her sister. I answer as honestly as I can while maintaining the delicate balance required by both the cameras and Brielle’s obvious desire for us to get along.
After dinner, Paisley suggests a “grown-up conversation” on the back deck. Eric takes the hint, gathering the children for bath time while Brielle helps clear the table. I follow Paisley outside, steeling myself for what’s clearly about to be an interrogation without Brielle’s buffering presence.
The backyard is small but thoughtfully designed, with string lights crisscrossing overhead and comfortable patio furniture arranged around a fire pit. Paisley gestures for me to sit, then takes the chair directly across from me, leaning forward with elbows on her knees.
“So,” she begins without preamble, “Brielle puts up a good front, but she feels things deeply. More deeply than she lets on.”
“I see that in her,” I say quietly. “It’s one of the things I admire most.”
Paisley’s eyes narrow. “You were married before.”
The abrupt change of subject catches me off guard. “Yes. To Sarah. She passed away three years ago.”
“Car accident, right? While picking up your son from practice?”
The directness of it sends a jolt through me. “Yes.”
“And since then? Have you dated much?”
“Not really,” I admit. “August has been my priority.”
Paisley nods, something softening in her expression. “That’s admirable. But it also means you haven’t had to navigate a serious relationship since losing your wife. Have you considered what that means for someone like my sister, who would be stepping into a ready-made family with a child who’s already experienced profound loss?”
Her question hits with surgical precision, targeting vulnerabilities I’ve tried to ignore. “I’ve thought about it constantly,” I tell her, deciding that complete honesty is the only approach that will work. “August is always my first consideration in any decision.”
“And therapy?” Paisley’s gaze is unflinching. “Have you sought professional help to process your grief? To understand how it might affect your ability to commit to someone new?”
The camera crew shifts slightly, zooming in on what’s clearly becoming compelling television. I resist the urge to modulate my response for their benefit, focusing instead on Paisley’s question.
“Yes,” I say simply. “For two years after Sarah died, and then again when I decided to do this show. I wanted to be sure I was ready.”
“And are you? Ready?”
The question hangs between us, heavier than it should be, loaded with implications about my worthiness to love her sister. Something defensive rises in me.
“I believe I am,” I tell her, meeting her gaze directly. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Belief isn’t certainty. And Brielle deserves certainty after everything she’s been through. She lost our mother ten months ago.”
“I know, and I’m so sorry.”
“So she’s vulnerable. Looking for connection.” Paisley’s tone turns sharper. “And although I’m sure all your dates make for great TV, I’m not convinced it makes for a great foundation for my sister’s happiness.”
I take a deep breath, trying to maintain my composure in the face of this unflinching assessment. “I understand your concerns. I do. But my feelings for Brielle are real.”
“Were you a good husband?” Paisley asks suddenly. “A good father?”
The question hits like a physical blow, striking directly at my deepest insecurity. Images flash through my mind—missed T-ball games for photography assignments, arguments with Sarah about my travel schedule, the biggest regret of my life.
“I—” My voice catches. “I tried to be. I made mistakes.”