Visiting Catherine and David

We eased into the long driveway of Catherine and David's home, nestled in a quiet Minnetonka suburb, the car's tires crunching softly against the pavement. Before we had even opened the car door, there she was—Catherine—bounding toward us, barefoot, dressed in yoga pants and a hoodie, her hair piled high in a messy bun. She looked the same, save for a few silvery strands woven through her dark blonde hair. Tall, effortlessly graceful, and absolutely beaming.

The moment she bent down to wrap me in her arms, something in my chest cracked wide open. Six years apart, reduced to a handful of hurried Zoom calls, had felt like an eternity. I squeezed her tightly, memorizing the familiar feel of her hug, the way she always squeezed just a little tighter than most. My throat tightened. I had missed her more than I ever let myself admit.

I thought of the day she packed up a few boxes of possessions, her potted plants, and her grey pit bull rescue named Nina into a U-Haul, planning to leave California, returning to Minnesota to start fresh with her mom. I had stood there, willing myself to be strong for her, to smile and tell her she was making the right choice. I made it to the car before ugly crying the whole way home.

Catherine is one of those rare people who makes you feel completely seen, completely safe. If I texted her late saying, I need to talk, she would answer. No hesitation. She'd sit with a glass of rosé and listen while I poured my guts out. She always had a way of making me feel understood, of reminding me I was never truly alone.

We entered her house from the downstairs. Catherine's eyes shone bright as she showed us around her home and held up her pit bulls, Wallace and Olivia, Their tails wriggling rapidly as they jumped on us and tried to lick our faces.

Downstairs there was the den, with an oversized sectional and massive TV where I imagined she and her husband David sat many nights cuddling and watching football. Upstairs, the modern kitchen gleamed with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. We perched at the bar, sipping champagne and snacking as we exchanged stories—some old, some brand new, each one bridging the years between us.

David, her husband, joined us, his dry humor sparking easy banter with Jeremy. I watched, amused, laughing nervously when I wasn't entirely sure if he was joking. But beyond the wit, I saw the way he cared for her—doing small, thoughtful things without being asked. The way his eyes softened when he looked at her. My heart swelled with gratitude, knowing she had found someone who cherished her the way she deserved.

Later, I turned to her and quietly asked if we could talk, just the two of us. Without a word, she topped off my champagne, grabbed a box of crackers, and motioned for me to follow her downstairs.

We sat in the spare bedroom across from her pristine laundry machines as I bore a truth that had been weighing on me for weeks. To my surprise, she looked at me with sad, knowing eyes and told me I wasn't alone and that she had a similar story to tell. When she finished her tale, I was shocked, but strangely, I felt lighter than I had in a month, reminded of the power of female friendship and how healing it can be. From upstairs, the guys called down, asking when we wanted dinner. We exchanged a look, smiled, and hugged one last time before heading back up.

We spent the whole night talking by the fire and reminiscing, learning more about David and his family. Catherine told me her plans to re-paint walls and re-do countertops because they don't match the backsplash. I chuckled, listening to her banter with David about things only a designer would notice as he rolled his eyes.

The next morning, we went to Ike’s, a local spot famous for its over-the-top family brunch. We split a cinnamon roll the size of a dinner plate and indulged in endless platters of eggs, sausage, and pancakes. By the time we left, our bellies were full, but so were our hearts.

Then came the part I had been dreading.

She hugged me tightly at the curb, promising she’d visit us for Halloween. But October felt far too far away. As we pulled out of the driveway and onto the road, the rain started to fall, streaking the windows. Silent tears traced the same path down my cheeks.

Catherine is more than a friend. She’s my sister. The kind of person you only find once in a lifetime. And no matter how many miles stretch between us, I know—with absolute certainty—that she will always be there when I need her most.