Death is never easy, even when expected. Last week, my fiance’s aunt died after a two month battle against pancreatic cancer. Her decline was rapid, faster than her family was prepared for. But, in the wake of her death, sitting next to my soon-to-be mother-in-law, holding her hand as she looked at her newly departed sister, I couldn’t help but realize as I always do in the near aftermath of someone’s death — it brings people together. And from what little I’ve gathered of Coleen, that’s exactly what she would have wanted.

I find myself grateful to her. Because her death made me feel like a real part of the family for the first time. For the first time, I was able to look at Wes and think of him as a brother without finding the term strange. For the first time, I was able to sit next to Randy’s mother and not feel on edge and nervous. In a strange way, Coleen’s passing has made me feel inducted into the family.

But I am no fool — the death of Randy’s aunt is not about me. My heart pained for her husband, Jim, when he came to the kitchen where I was holding his giggling 10-week old grandson immediately after Coleen formally passed, and took the small boy in his arms, cooing over him, a single tear tracing down his face. He loved her, and he was happy she was no longer in pain. In many ways, he reminded me of my grandma after my grandpa died when I was in second grade. I remember her clearly, sitting in her rocking chair as friends and family cried and hugged each other, and she sat with a peaceful smile on her face. I asked her why she was smiling and all she said was, “He’s not in pain anymore. He’s in a better place.”

Later, I was in the room with Randy’s mom and a few others when Jim came into the room. He leaned over his wife and gave her the sweetest hug and kiss, and when he pulled back, was startled to see a smile on her face that was not there before. And as he hung over her, looking at her, stroking her face, telling her how much he loved her, I considered the fears that had sprung up over the last month or so about marriage in the long term and the words “till death do us part.” It is not marriage that scares me, but life for whichever of us survives the other.

But, watching Jim and his beloved wife, even with the pain that hung in the room, there was a certain lightness, a certain joy found in a life well lived and people well loved. And my own fears were lifted. I am certain they will return from time to time, but, particularly as I listened to one of their sons talk about their mother, I realized that I was missing one important piece in my premature fears last month: When you choose to make your life with someone, you add more people by nature. Jim and his boys can find comfort in each other, in knowing that Coleen loved them all, and made each of them who they are. Coleen and her love is truly a part of all of them, and the memories of her, those will never leave. While she may be gone physically, while Christmases and holidays will never be the same, she is still there — so long as those who she knew and loved are able to scratch the surface and find her.

Thank you Coleen. I am sorry that I did not get the opportunity to know you well, but through those you loved, your legacy lives on, and I am grateful for all you have done for me indirectly, for all the influence you have had on the family I am soon to be a part of. May you rest in peace and love.