Everyone has their own story and so does Patrick Mahomes, an unspeakable sadness

The city wakes slowly on Sundays. The noise of the weekday hushes down, replaced by the rustling of leaves, the quiet chatter of pigeons, and the distant hum of a coffee cart setting up near the fountain

The city wakes slowly on Sundays. The noise of the weekday hushes down, replaced by the rustling of leaves, the quiet chatter of pigeons, and the distant hum of a coffee cart setting up near the fountain. There’s something gentler about this part of the week, something softer in the way sunlight sifts through the trees, or the way people walk without rushing.

In the center of Central Green Park, beneath a canopy of tall sycamores, there is a bench—old, worn, a little crooked on one side. Just a bench, like thousands of others in the city. Except that this one, every Sunday morning around 8:30, had a guardian.

He came alone. A man in his 30s, tall, athletic, with a quiet presence that seemed to ripple out from his stillness. He wore the same red jacket every week—simple, a little too warm for late spring—and sneakers that had seen many miles. No phone, no coffee, no book. Just himself. He sat quietly at the far left corner of the bench, his right hand resting lightly on the wooden slat next to him as if saving space for someone.

Some people recognized him. A few whispered, pointing discreetly: “Is that Patrick Mahomes?” Others passed without noticing, but no one ever approached. Not because they didn’t want to, but because something about him felt sacred, like interrupting him would be interrupting a prayer you didn’t understand. Children ran by with kites, joggers circled the path, the world moved around him—but Patrick remained still, as though he were listening for something only he could hear.

Some regulars nicknamed the bench “the silence seat.” A few elderly folks speculated, “Maybe he lost someone. Maybe he’s waiting.” A young couple once argued over whether it was performance art or heartbreak. But no one knew, and Patrick never said a word.

The truth was buried not in silence, but in memory. Many years ago, on a day much like this, he had sat here for the first time. Back then, he hadn’t been alone. She had been beside him—her laughter filling the air like birdsong, her hand wrapped in his. They’d shared a thermos of tea and spoken about the future as if it were a friend they were about to meet. She leaned her head on his shoulder and he whispered something only she could hear. It had been an ordinary day—no crowds, no rain, just the sun, the bench, and the feeling that the world, just for that moment, made perfect sense.

But moments don’t last, not even the perfect ones. It was a late-night drive, a road slick from unexpected rain, a flash of headlights—and then, silence. A silence not just of sound, but of life. She was gone. So was the child growing inside her. The world, once warm and full, became a place with one chair forever empty.

Patrick disappeared for a while after that—from games, from press, from life. He traveled, not to find anything, but to escape what he could never leave behind. Yet somehow, his feet always found their way back to this bench. Every time he sat there, the wind seemed to carry her voice through the leaves. He never brought flowers, never spoke her name aloud. This wasn’t about remembering; it was about being. Being in the only place left where she still felt near.

Some days he stayed ten minutes, others an hour, but always he left the same way—without looking back, as if afraid that if he did, he might see her ghost smiling at him from the bench.

But something was changing. The weight of years had carved deeper lines into his face. The grief, though quiet, had not disappeared; it had simply grown used to its cage. He didn’t know that this particular Sunday would be different—that a pair of small feet running off the beaten path, a child’s voice clear and unafraid, would change everything.

That Sunday, the sky was a little bluer than usual. Patrick sat in his usual place, same jacket, same silence, same distant gaze that seemed to stretch beyond the trees and into another time. The park was quiet, save for the occasional chirp of birds and the rhythmic wheeze of a passing jogger.

But something was different. Subtle at first: light, quick, uneven footsteps. Small ones—not the kind that echoed with urgency or purpose, but the carefree rhythm of someone too young to worry about anything at all. A little girl came bounding down the path, arms flapping for balance, pink sneakers slapping against the pavement. Her hair, a tangled mess of curls, bounced with every skip. She couldn’t have been more than seven. She was chasing a squirrel. The squirrel darted up a tree near the bench. The girl halted, cheeks flushed with adventure—and that’s when she saw him.

Patrick turned his head, not startled, but curious. Most people avoided his gaze, but this child looked at him the way children look at clouds: with no expectation, no fear, just wonder. Their eyes met. Neither said a word. She stepped closer, then a little more, and then, without asking, she climbed onto the bench, plopping down beside him like they’d known each other forever.

After a moment, she dug into her jacket and pulled out a crumpled candy wrapper. With great care, she peeled it open, revealing a single red lollipop. She stared at it, then at him. “Do you want it?” she asked, her voice soft, a question wrapped in kindness.

Patrick blinked, taken aback. It had been years since a stranger offered him anything without a motive. No autograph, no photo, no request—just a child, holding out a small piece of sugar like it was the most valuable thing in the world. He smiled. “I think you should have it,” he replied.

She frowned, considering this. Then she nodded and unwrapped another candy from her other pocket. “I have two,” she announced. “One for me, one for someone sad.”

Patrick looked at her—really looked—and for the first time in what felt like centuries, he didn’t see the park or the memories that clung to the bench. He saw now—a child, a gesture, a moment he hadn’t asked for but desperately needed.

“Are you sad?” she asked, as if it were the most normal question in the world.

Patrick’s throat tightened. He didn’t lie. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Sometimes.”

She nodded like she understood. “My mom gets sad too. She says it’s like rain inside your chest.”

He breathed in slowly. That metaphor—simple, poetic, true—hit him harder than she could have known.

“I lost someone,” he said after a while. “A long time ago. I come here because we used to sit here together.”

“Oh,” she said, suddenly softer, like a secret place.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Exactly like that.”

She stared straight ahead, her lollipop in her mouth. After a few thoughtful licks, she said, “Well, I think it’s okay to be sad here. But not all the time.”

Patrick almost chuckled—the kind of wisdom only children carry without sounding preachy. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Lily,” she said proudly. “What’s yours?”

He hesitated—not because he didn’t want to tell her, but because it had been so long since someone had asked without already knowing. “Patrick.”

She smiled. “That’s a cool name. Is it made up?”

He laughed softly, a sound strange in his chest. “No, it’s real. It means ‘noble.’”

She let out a dramatic sigh. “Well, that’s better than mine. Mine just means flower.”

“I think flowers are important,” he said, “because they remind us that things can bloom again, even after winter.”

She was quiet after that—a long, thoughtful pause between two souls separated by decades, but somehow sitting at the same edge of something: grief, hope, or maybe both.

Finally, she reached into her jacket again and pulled out a small notebook. On the first page was a drawing of a tree with red hearts instead of leaves. “I draw stuff when I feel lonely,” she explained. “It makes the sad get smaller.” She ripped the page out carefully and handed it to him. “For you,” she said, “so the sad doesn’t stay too big.”

Patrick took the drawing with both hands, treating it like it was made of glass. “Thank you, Lily,” he whispered.

The wind picked up slightly, curling through the trees. Patrick looked down at the drawing in his hand—red hearts blooming on the branches of a child’s tree. So simple, so innocent, and yet it broke something open inside him.

Lily was quiet now, sensing something in the air. She glanced at Patrick, then at the bench, then back at him. “Do you want to tell me about her?” she asked.

No one had asked him that in years. He didn’t speak right away. His eyes, heavy with years of unspoken sorrow, drifted toward the far end of the bench—the space he never let anyone sit. He nodded slowly.

“I met her on a Tuesday,” he began, his voice low and steady, like a story he’d told himself too many times. “She walked into a bookstore I was hiding in. It was raining. She didn’t carry an umbrella, just a scarf she held over her head, laughing like she wasn’t getting soaked.” He paused, the memory catching like a lump in his throat. “She looked at me, not like a fan, just a stranger meeting another human. In that moment, I felt like I’d been seen for the first time in years.”

She listened, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

“We talked about nothing, about dogs, about what our kids might be like. She wanted to name our first child Juniper. I told her that sounded like a tree. She said, ‘Exactly. Roots. Growth. Something strong, but still beautiful.’” His voice trembled. “She got pregnant a year later. We were both terrified, but happy. So happy.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as if holding the weight of that happiness in his hands. “Then one night, we went out to celebrate. Nothing fancy. Just dinner and a drive. She loved late night drives. There was a drunk driver. He ran a red light. Hit us from the side. I woke up in the hospital. They…” He didn’t finish.

Lily’s eyes were wide, not with fear, but with empathy.

“She was gone,” Patrick said quietly, “and so was Juniper.”

He looked down, blinking away tears. “I didn’t want to live after that. I left everything. I walked for months. Every night, I saw her in my dreams, laughing, holding our child. I came back to this bench because it was ours. We used to sit here every Sunday morning, talk about nothing, watch the world go by, plan for a future that never came.”

Lily didn’t say a word. She reached out and placed her tiny hand gently on top of his. It was small but steady, present.

“I think she still comes here,” Lily said softly, “even if you can’t see her.”

Patrick closed his eyes. “She said something to me once, right before the crash. I think about it every day.”

“What did she say?” Lily whispered.

He looked up at the sky. “Promise me you won’t stop loving the world, even if it breaks you.”

A silence fell over them—sacred and unshaken. For a long while, they sat there, hand in hand. One man and one child, linked not by blood or name, but by the quiet understanding that pain, when shared, becomes something else—not lighter, not gone, but no longer unbearable.

The world seemed to pause. The sun filtered through in long golden ribbons. Somewhere nearby, a bird let out a single note, then stopped.

Lily didn’t speak. She didn’t say, “I’m sorry.” She knew, in that innocent way only children can, that sometimes words aren’t enough. Sometimes the best thing you can do is be there.

She quietly reached into her jacket again, rummaging through a pocket until her fingers found another lollipop—this one blue, swirled with white, like a tiny globe. Without a word, she peeled off the wrapper, then gently placed the candy on Patrick’s knee. “For her,” she whispered, “in case she ever comes back.”

Patrick looked down, eyes stinging. This wasn’t just a piece of candy—it was a child’s offering, a small gesture wrapped in deep understanding. She didn’t pretend to fix him. She didn’t try to distract him. She honored the space he had created for love, for grief, for memory—and now she was offering him something new: a seed of belief that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to guard the bench forever.

“Thank you,” he said, voice thick. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Lily shrugged. “She was important to you. That makes her important to me.”

He closed his eyes for a second. The weight in his chest didn’t disappear, but it shifted—it moved just a little, like something ancient had cracked open, letting the light touch it for the first time in years.

“You know,” Lily said, kicking her feet slowly, “my dad left when I was four. He said he’d be back, but he never came.” Patrick turned to her, surprised by the sudden honesty. “I used to wait by the mailbox every day, even when it rained. I thought maybe he got lost, or maybe he forgot where we lived.” She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “And then one day, I stopped waiting. I left a lollipop in the mailbox, just in case.”

Patrick’s breath caught. There it was again—that quiet wisdom. “What color was it?” he asked.

“Red. Like the kind you said no to.” They both laughed—a soft, almost surprised sound. It felt strange, laughing beside so much sorrow, but in a way, it felt right. Maybe sorrow and joy weren’t enemies—just old neighbors, learning to sit on the same bench.

Lily looked around, then back at him. “I think we both waited a long time,” she said. “Maybe too long.”

Patrick nodded slowly. “Maybe.”

She stood, brushing crumbs from her dress. “But maybe now we don’t have to.”

There was something final in her tone, something clear—like she had come, done what she needed to do, and was ready to leave. But Patrick wasn’t ready for her to go. Not yet.

“Lily,” he said, standing with her, “why did you sit with me today? Out of everyone in the park, why me?”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “Because you looked like someone who needed a friend. And because I think she told me to.”

Patrick’s heart skipped. “She?” he asked.

Lily smiled, pointing to the spot beside him—the empty space he never let anyone sit in. “She was here when I arrived. Not with her body, but with her love. You could feel it. You can still feel it.”

He followed her gaze, and for the first time since she had gone, he allowed himself to believe it was true. The air changed—not colder, not warmer, just lighter. A breeze passed through, carrying a scent he hadn’t smelled in years—lavender and citrus, her favorite. He didn’t question it.

Lily took a step back. “I think she’s ready now.”

“Ready?” he asked.

“For you to walk away.”

Patrick looked down at the candy on his knee, then back at the girl standing before him. He had carried grief like a stone—heavy, immovable, sacred—but now a child had handed him something different: permission. Permission to walk—not away from her, but forward with her.

She said, “Love doesn’t leave. It just finds new places to live.”

Patrick placed the blue lollipop gently in his coat pocket—a small, quiet promise. Then he did something he hadn’t done in years: he stood up and didn’t look back.

They say grief never truly leaves; it just learns to walk beside you. Patrick took a step forward, the bench—a monument to his sorrow—now quietly behind him. It hadn’t changed. The wood was still worn, the metal armrest still bore a faint scratch from years ago. But now, it was at peace.

He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the round curve of the lollipop—still untouched, still whole. He didn’t know what he’d do with it. Maybe leave it on the bench. Maybe keep it in his drawer. Maybe, one day, give it to someone else who needed it more.

He walked slowly down the path, past the fountain, past the food cart, past the statue of the soldier holding a letter in his bronze hand. With every step, he felt the bench growing smaller behind him. But she wasn’t getting smaller—she was with him, not in ghost or shadow, but in the tilt of his head, the way he noticed the light through the trees, the softness in his voice when he spoke to a stranger.

He remembered something she had said once, on a night when the world felt overwhelming and loud: “You don’t have to carry the whole sky, Patrick—just the stars that matter to you.”

So he did. He carried her laugh. He carried the name Juniper. He carried Lily’s drawing, now folded carefully in his pocket—branches made of hearts, reaching out in every direction. He carried love.

And as he reached the gates of the park, just before stepping into the city, he paused. He turned one last time—not at the bench, but at everything it had held: sorrow, silence, memory, and now, release.

A soft smile formed on his face. He whispered, more to the wind than to anyone at all, “I didn’t stop loving the world, even when it broke me.”

Then he stepped forward—into the noise, into the life, into everything ahead. And the bench? It stayed right where it was: empty, quiet, and for the first time in a long time, at peace