For several years after I left my homeland for America, I felt lost and directionless. From a distance, I observed those around me with wives and families, something I did not have. Although I was a respected photographer, I lived alone in a simple apartment in Nashville, Tennessee, without even a cat or dog for companionship.

After eight years of being in America, that changed.

In 2005, I found myself at a car dealership. The receptionist greeted me with a smile and asked, "What brings you here?"

"I need to replace a headlight," I replied simply. Although my English was passable, it left much to be desired.

She nodded and started the process, typing away on her computer. No one else was in the room except for another employee who seemed busy at his desk.

While waiting, she struck up a conversation with me. "Where are you from? You're not from around here."

I answered honestly: "What used to be Yugoslavia."

She looked intrigued. "What is Yugoslavia like?"

"It is broken up now," I said. "There was nothing left for me there anymore."

Patty, that was the name on her name tag, changed the subject quickly. Although it was hard for me to keep up with what she was saying, I became fascinated by her smile. She was genuinely a nice woman.

After about a minute of her talking, I asked, "Have you worked here long?"

"Just a few months," she replied with a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "But maybe one day I'll move closer to the ocean."

Surprised, I asked, "You have never seen the ocean?"

She shook her head. "No, but it's on my bucket list."

"I have not seen the ocean either except in a plane," I added.

That was how our friendship began—a simple conversation about a replacement headlight turned into something more.

We went out for coffee and lunch a few times that month. Nothing too romantic as we were just getting to know each other. Patty was talkative, telling me all about her life before, how she had been married once but divorced about seven years ago. She thought it might have been due to fertility issues or money troubles. I spoke as well but mostly about recent events. I was happy to talk as Patty always listened to whatever I had to say.

Several weeks passed, and our coffee dates became something we both looked forward to. We were both lonely, but together, we seemed like a good fit for each other. One day, during a coffee date, I suggested we go see the ocean together. It would be just something to do on the weekend. Patty agreed, and we started planning our trip.

When we finally stood on that beach, the vast expanse of blue took our breath away. The salty air filled my lungs as we walked along the shoreline, hand in hand. In that perfect moment, an idea struck me.

"Maybe we should move to Savannah," I said impulsively. "Be closer to the ocean."

Patty looked surprised but intrigued for a brief second. Then she shook her head gently. "We're still on first base and have only gone out for a few months," she reminded me. "People usually take things slower in America."

I nodded, understanding her hesitation. "One day, I will ask you properly," I promised.

She smiled and leaned into my embrace as we watched the waves crash against the shore. That night, under the stars on the beach, I shared more of my past with Patty. I told her that I was never a soldier during the war but that the war had hurt me deeply. Mostly, I spoke about before the war, when things in Yugoslavia were harsh but predictable.

She was honestly shocked that we had Coke in Yugoslavia but I think most Americans think Yugoslavia was Russia or something. Americans do not know how my country was, but I was used to it. What is important is that at the beach, Patty listened attentively and was willing to learn about the way things were with her hand intertwined with mine.

Patty told me that she sometimes gets sad, a sort of medical condition. I told her that it was OK as sometimes I get moody as well. Then came an awkward pause which I broke.

"I am grateful to be with you, Patty," I said finally. "I am grateful you listen as well as speak."

Patty looked away then back at me and said, "I changed my mind about moving to the ocean with you."

I was caught off guard by her change of heart. Patty would one day be my wife, a woman I could protect and hold to the end.

Knowing how Americans are about money and security, I told Patty, "I have a lot of money, but I do not like to spend it unless necessary."

Smiling, she replied, "I don't have a lot of money, but if I did, I wouldn't waste it either."

Patty was certainly the woman for me as she had demonstrated during our coffee dates and now.

She also told me that she could not have children. That made it sad that she would tell me a second time, but I understood that it was important for her to do so if we were to move forward.

"I understand," I told her. "We are both older, so that is okay." Trying to be American and never thinking about it before, I added, "If it is important, we can get an American Terrier."

All Patty could do was laugh, which made me smile as well.

We spoke for hours that night on the beach, and in the end, our promises brought both of us relief and joy. We returned from our trip with plans forming in our minds.

Soon we were married at the courthouse. It was not a proper, expensive wedding though. I had coworkers but few friends, and my ailing father lived far away. Patty had no family at all, not a single one. She did have many friends, however, and her closest friends would be part of our celebration at a local restaurant afterwards. Simple yet perfect, it marked a new beginning for both of us.

Two months later, we were settled into a modest house just outside Savannah, Georgia and within walking distance to the beach. The house had been paid for outright.

As I watched the sunset from our porch, I felt a deep sense of contentment. This was a second chance, different from the painful memories of war that still lingered in my mind. Patty and I were happy, building a life together in this peaceful corner of America.

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